Joint Strength
by Rene Austen
Summary: After Obi-Wan Kenobi is apprenticed to Qui-Gon Jinn, a dark adventure separates and challenges them.
1. Chapter one js

Title: Joint Strength

Author: Rene Austen

Rating: PG

Notes: This story takes place prior to Episode One. It uses some characters and references from the Jedi Apprentice books by Jude Watson and Dave Wolverton, though knowledge of those books is not necessary; I've attempted to include enough exposition to make the story stand on its own.

This is not a new story; I wrote it shortly after Episode One premiered. But, being something of a Luddite, I mistakenly published it here in separate chapters. This made it rather hard to read; despite that, it received many kind reviews, for which I'm grateful, and which I was loathe to lose by republishing the story properly. Having received several requests to do just that, however, I'm reposting it in the correct format.

Disclaimer: All belongs to Lucasfilm, except for the various denizens of the planet Triki.

Joint Strength, Part One

_"Two are better than one._

_For if either of them falls,_

_the one will lift up his companion._

_And if one can overpower him who is alone,_

_two can resist him._

_A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart."_

from the Book of Ecclesiastes

Coruscant's metallic silver glow filled the viewscreens of the boxy commercial transport. Although most of the passengers were jaded by many approaches to the capital planet, they drifted over to watch the cityscape grow ever nearer, for the capital's beautiful strangeness was unique in the galaxy.

Two passengers stood slightly apart from the others. Their pale tunics and brown cloaks were simple, their stance casual, but, still, an aura of controlled power drifted subtly about them. The other passengers gave them a little extra space, without really recognizing why.

The older of the two, a tall man, glanced down at his young companion's serious face, and felt a tug of concern. The circular journey that had brought them together to Bandomeer and back had been a difficult one , and yet, he thought that the boy had grown much through it. Would those fragile lessons stay with him when he returned here, to his old environment, with its old challenges?

For his part, the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn felt great hope for his brand-new apprentice.

The thoughts of the apprentice, Obi-Wan Kenobi, rested not on their approaching destination, but on his own approaching future. He was overjoyed that Qui-Gon had accepted him as a Padawan learner, but a deep well of insecurity flowed beneath that happiness. Their new partnership had not been made known to the Council, or formally approved by them. It was true that this was usually done in person, but Qui-Gon could have called the Council from Bandomeer and requested their approval. He could have saved them this long trip back to Coruscant. Why was he so determined to see the Council face to face? Perhaps he felt that the Council might not approve. After all, this was the same Council who had sent Obi-Wan away, to Bandomeer, to the Agricorps! Maybe they would think that Obi-Wan was not worthy. Qui-Gon himself had hesitated for a long time before accepting him. Maybe. . .

"And my birthday's in just a few days. . ."

His 13th birthday. His last chance to be a Jedi.

He didn't realize he had spoken that thought aloud until he felt Qui-Gon's reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Your birthday is no longer a day to dread, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon said quietly.

"Yes, Master." Obi-Wan looked down, embarrassed that Qui-Gon had recognized so easily the panicky tenor of his thoughts. "I guess old worries are hard to get rid of."

Qui-Gon smiled. "They are, indeed. But you can let go of this one, I think. The Council will approve."

"You're certain." It was not a question.

"Yes, I am. The Council has desired me to take a Padawan for some time now."

A Padawan, yes, thought Obi-Wan. But perhaps not such an uncertain one.

Qui-Gon gazed down at the boy's bent head, and felt deep regret. He saw clearly that his delay in accepting Obi-Wan had opened deep rents in his confidence.

Feeling regretful isn't the answer, he thought. I must find a way to repair this.

He started by squatting down so that he could look up into Obi-Wan's face, and saying, "Not just any Padawan. You and I share a destiny now. The Council will see that as clearly as I do. Their approval of our decision will be complete, I promise you."

Obi-Wan smiled, trying to show his gratitude for his Master's assurance, but a small flame of fear still burnt in the deepest part of his spirit.

Qui-Gon straightened his tall frame. The transport was beginning its final docking.

From the spaceport, a dish-shaped taxi delivered Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan to the broad front plaza of the Jedi Temple. Together they walked toward the immense building, so familiar to both of them that they were immune to its grandeur. As they reached the first set of wide steps, where several engraved pathways led in various directions, Qui-Gon stopped Obi-Wan with a touch on his arm.

"We must separate here," he said.

Obi-wan looked up at him, startled. He had assumed that they would go to the Council at once.

Qui-Gon smiled. "I'm afraid we have different missions today. I have been summoned to the Chancellor's office on a matter of old business, and then I must go to several senators."

Obi-Wan nodded, trying not to look awe-struck at Qui-Gon's casual tone. Summoned personally to the Chancellor. . .!

"You, however, must close out your affairs here at the Temple."

"My affairs?" Obi-Wan had no idea what his Master was talking about.

Qui-Gon folded his arms, nodding. "Yes. After today, you travel with me. The Student's Quarters aren't your home any longer."

Obi-Wan processed this thought for a moment. He recognized suddenly how thoroughly his life was changed. The Temple, the center of his existence, had ceased to be central. He tested this thought, but found no sadness in it. He smiled. "So I guess they'll need my old room for somebody new."

Qui-Gon agreed with an answering smile, but his eyes searched Obi-Wan penetratingly. He was pleased to see no dismay cloud his apprentice's mind at the thought of closing the door on all that was familiar. It was another sign that Obi-Wan was meant to be his Padawan.

"So," he said, "we will do our separate tasks. Then I'll return this evening, and we'll go before the Council together."

Obi-Wan felt his stomach tighten with apprehension, but he tried to nod coolly. Qui-Gon saw this and frowned inwardly. More work to do there, he thought, but he said only, "I'm afraid you won't be able to take many of your things with you. I travel very lightly."

Obi-Wan grinned, looking down at the two small bags at their feet-one for Qui-Gon, one for him. Qui-Gon grinned, too. "Even this is more than I usually take. So, don't pack much."

Obi-Wan bowed deeply and intoned, "I heed your words, Master." This was a very formal acknowledgment of great wisdom received from one's Master.

Qui-Gon laughed. "Well, for that mockery, I banish you to your dull task." Then, he said, more seriously, "I'll return this evening, then."

"I'll be ready."

Qui-Gon strode off down the pathway toward the hanger where shuttles were kept for the Knights' use. Obi-Wan turned and began to climb the long flight of steps to the Temple's main entrance.

* * *

Earlier that morning, in a small exercise yard behind one of the Jedi Temple's main gardens, a solitary Jedi student worked. Balancing precariously on a slender pose set between two three-meter-tall towers, he brandished his lightsaber in a series of stylized slices and spins. He was skillful and strong, but his movements lacked the grace and effortlessness of one who was truly in tune with the Force, and he felt this. Suddenly, he threw down his lightsaber in frustration, and sank into a dejected posture atop one of the towers.

Only then did he see the man watching him.

Humiliated that someone had seen his display of temper, he called out brusquely, "What do you want?"

The man made no answer, but walked into the exercise yard, retrieved the fallen lightsaber and handed it up toward the student. The boy reached for it, but somehow the man held it just out of his reach.

"You are the learner called Bruck Chun, then?" he asked, his voice warm and courteous.

Bruck looked down. "I'm no one's Padawan," he muttered.

"Forgive me," the stranger said smoothly. "I meant 'learner' in its more general sense."

"My name's Bruck," the boy acknowledged.

"Ah, Bruck. I have been seeking you." The man handed Bruck the lightsaber.

"Why? Who are you?"

"I am called Morran. I come to you with information that will be to your advantage if you will use it wisely."

Bruck eyed him suspiciously. It was difficult to see his face clearly, for he wore a long black cloak with a deeply concealing hood, like a Jedi's, except for the color. Bruck had never seen a Jedi wearing a black cloak.

"Are you a Jedi? How do you know my name?" he demanded, and then curiosity compelled him to add, "What information?"

A soft chuckle issued from beneath the concealing hood. "So many questions. Such impatience. Are you truly a Jedi pupil?"

Bruck's face turned a painful red. He stared down at the lightsaber in his clenched hands. "I beg your pardon, Morran."

"You have just cause for curiosity. Some of my information concerns an old friend of yours. One Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Bruck's jaw tightened. "Kenobi is no friend of mine!"

"No? Well, then, perhaps you will be interested in my other bit of news."

"What's that?"

"Only that the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn returns today to the Temple. He means to publicly take a Padawan."

Bruck leaned back in amazement. "But. . .everyone says that Qui-Gon Jinn will never take another apprentice."

Morran was still for a moment.

"Do they? Well, everyone is wrong. Qui-Gon Jinn will definitely name a Padawan today, here." He paused and then said silkily, "Perhaps that Padawan will be you, Bruck Chun."

Bruck stared down at him, so shocked that for a moment he could not speak. Qui-Gon Jinn was one of the greatest Knights. To be chosen as his apprentice after all these years would be a mark of huge favor. Everyone would look on his Padawan with admiration, and perhaps with deep envy.

"Me?" he said finally, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched. "I mean, why would he? I fought for him once, but. . ."

"And it was a memorable fight, wasn't it? Walk with me, Bruck. I will tell you more."

Eagerly, Bruck leaped down from the tower, and joined the stranger as he turned away. They walked slowly out of the yard, the stranger's voice murmuring seductively, like the ripple of a dark stream.


	2. Chapter 2

**Joint Strength Part Two**

Qui-Gon was halfway to the enormous Senate complex when the shuttle's comlink buzzed.

After procuring the shuttle and instructing it to take him to the Senate, Qui-Gon had sunk deep in meditation, an exercise sorely missed in the frantic action of the past two weeks. He engaged himself in a close study of his heart's new warmth, and was forced to admit that the past years of solitude had created a drought in his spirit. There is an old Jedi saying: "The heart which focuses only on itself is barren." By closing himself off and living as a solitary warrior, he had denied himself the blessing of caring for another's well-being and growth. He had not realized, until encountering Obi-Wan, that being a Master was a greater benefit to the teacher than to the student.

Lost in these thoughts, he was almost startled as the comlink's insistent buzz pulled him back into the here-and-now. He activated it, and then sat back in surprise. Revolving on the control panel before him was the Supreme Chancellor's personal holographic cryptocon. Qui-Gon stated his name for the voiceprint identification, and then the cryptocon dissolved, reforming as a hologram of Chancellor Valorum himself. Qui-Gon bowed slightly. "Chancellor. I'm on my way to your offices now."

Valorum shook his head. "There isn't even time for that, I'm afraid. You need to go to the main spaceport at once."

"The spaceport?"

"Just start heading that way, and I'll explain." Valorum sighed, and ran his fingers through his thick white hair. "You remember the treaty you delivered to Triki last month?"

This was obviously a rhetorical question, but Qui-Gon answered it anyway. "Of course. The two dominant tribes refused to even step onto the same continent without a Guardian of the Peace between them, and then, when I finally did arrive with the treaty, they threw themselves in each other's arms and commenced a week-long party before remembering to actually sign it."

"Yes. Well. . ." Valorum seemed to be having some difficulty in maintaining his serious expression. One corner of his mouth curled upward as he said, "It seems that now they claim the treaty to be invalid without the signature of the 'Sacred Messenger' inscribed atop their own."

"What?"

"Yes, O Sacred Messenger." Valorum was smiling openly now. "You must return to Triki and sign your name atop theirs in the presence of the tribal leaders."

"I'm not a sacred messenger."

"Apparently their gods have declared that you are, my friend." The Chancellor's young-old face grew serious. "Qui-Gon, they insist that the war resumes at nightfall unless you ratify the treaty. You know what that means."

Qui-Gon nodded grimly. Hundreds, no, thousands of Trikan dead before the night had passed. Of course he must do what was necessary to prevent such an event. He searched his mind for alternatives.

"What about a hologram?"

"They say it has to be you, with a real pen and real ink."

"A facsimile, delivered by. . ."

"It has to be you, Qui-Gon, and it has to be today. Their Oracle was most insistent."

"Why is it in such a rush? And how did it know that I was returning to Coruscant today?"

Valorum spread his hands. "Excellent questions. I suggest you ask the Oracle itself. It seems to be a big fan of yours."

Qui-Gon sighed and rubbed his eyes. Triki was a monotonous ten-hour hyperspace flight away. He could see the spaceport, which he had left a mere two hours before, looming in the distance.

Valorum's face was sympathetic. "I've already had an aide inform the Jedi Council of this development, and arrange one of my courier ships for you. If my office could be helpful in any other way. . .?"

"Do I have time to return to the Temple and pick up my apprentice?"

Valorum gazed at him for a moment, one eyebrow quirked inquiringly. "Since when do you have an apprentice? I can see we must meet for lunch again soon and have a long chat."

A faint smile crossed Qui-Gon's face. "Since not very long ago. He's not officially recognized as my apprentice yet. We were going to take care of that today."

Valorum nodded slowly. "I see. There's a good story there, I think, but we don't have time for it. In order to take him with you, you'd have to explain all this to the Council, right? And I don't think there's time to go back to the Temple, find the boy, get the Council together, get their approval, get back to the spaceport, and so on and so on. Nightfall on Triki is coming fast."

Qui-Gon paused reluctantly, but there was no disputing the truth of those words. "You're right."

"I'm sorry that it has to be this way."

"It is as it is."

"Now there's a Jedi saying if I've ever heard one. Good luck. . No, for you I'll say, Force be with you, my friend."

"And with you."

Qui-Gon closed the connection and took control of the shuttle, angling it toward the Spaceport. With the Chancellor's personal clearance codes, he was landed and parked in a matter of minutes. Settling back in his seat, he retrieved his personal comlink to call Obi-Wan, deeply disliking the disappointment he was about to inflict. He hoped that Obi-Wan, in the past few days, had learned to trust him enough to see that there was no alternative. Their meeting with the Council would be delayed, and with it, Obi-Wan's official recognition as his Padawan.

At that moment, Obi-Wan was excitedly demonstrating his proven technique for beheading an approaching draigon. His first act upon entering the Temple again had been to locate his three best friends: Garen, Reeft and Bant. Their reaction, after affectionate greetings, had been to demand an immediate recounting of all his adventures since departing for Bandomeer two weeks before. Obi-wan was eager to tell them of his new apprenticeship, but that was the end of the story, and his orderly mind demanded that he tell the beginning first.

So, his arms were raised high above his head in a simulated battle stance when his comlink buzzed, introducing such an improbable noise into his dramatic story that his friends all laughed. Grinning as well, Obi-Wan thumbed the comlink's activator.

"Obi-Wan?"

The deep, commanding voice drew a stare from Obi-Wan's three friends. They had known him since they were all little children; they knew all the same people. But none of them recognized that voice. And more surprising still was the fact that Obi-Wan didn't seem the least startled by it. He smiled at them, said, "Excuse me, please," and retreated to a far corner of the common room. The three friends looked after him in consternation. Obi-Wan had never exhibited a need for privacy before, either.

Bent over the comlink, Obi-Wan listened intently as Qui-Gon explained the Trikan situation.

"You see why I must go at once."

"Yes, Master. Their society sounds very. . .unusual."

The sound that came over the comlink was halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "'Unusual' is a wonderfully neutral way of describing it. I commend your tactfulness."

Obi-Wan smiled at the slightly sour tone in Qui-Gon's voice. "When will you be back?"

"Soon, I hope."

"Unless another week-long party develops." "I'll do everything in my power to get the treaty signed before any celebrations begin." Qui-Gon paused. "Obi-Wan, I'm sorry about this. I'll return as quickly as I can, and we'll go before the Council, but your status will seem. . .uncertain, to others. Will that be a problem?"

"No, Master," Obi-Wan replied, trying to ignore the fist of worry in his stomach. "I'll attempt to look insignificant. Maybe no one will notice that I'm back."

"That's not likely, I'm afraid." Qui-Gon paused again. "Obi-Wan, hear me." These were the formal words of a Master requesting his student's most serious attention.

Obi-wan bowed, even though Qui-Gon couldn't see him. "Yes, Master?"

"When I first encountered you, there in the Temple, you were. . .struggling."

Obi-Wan felt his face flush, remembering that day: his fight with Bruck, his anger, his desperation.

"This isn't a rebuke," Qui-Gon said softly, as if he could see his apprentice's embarrassment. "But I want you to strive to meet those old struggles with your new attitudes. You have grown in the last few weeks, but returning to the scene of former battles requires deliberate effort not to fall into the old traps."

Obi-Wan winced, but he was truly grateful for his Master's advice. "I heed your words," he said, using the phrase seriously this time.

"Good. Well, if you find the time heavy, you can always work ahead in your studies. Then we can discuss what you've learned when I return from my stint as. . . Sacred Messenger."

The very faint whiff of sarcasm hanging over the last two words made Obi-Wan laugh.

"Go in peace, Master."

"You also, Padawan."

Clicking the comlink off, Obi-Wan turned to find his friends very busily not looking at him. He rejoined them, feeling the air thicken with their unspoken questions, until Garen blurted, "Who was _that_?"

Obi-Wan opened his mouth to tell them, enjoying the thought of the sensation Qui-Gon's name would cause, but in the split second before speaking, he realized that to do so before their relationship had been approved by the Council was nothing less than boasting, a dishonorable motivation, disrespectful to Qui-Gon. So he said, "A friend I made, on my trip to Bandomeer."

They nodded, but Bant's gaze was questioning.

Change the focus, he thought, a bit desperately. He gestured toward the door of the common room and said, "I've been traveling so much, I really want to work for awhile. Want to do some flips?"

Garen glanced at Reeft, who shrugged. "Okay. But, maybe we'll work on 'sabers." Garen wasn't particularly adept at acrobatics and tended to avoid practicing them unless required.

"All right," Obi-Wan said, and led them out of the room.

As they walked, he felt Bant's eyes on him. When he looked down at her, she said softly, "Something happened to you, out there, something more than just adventures."

Obi-Wan nodded, silent.

Bant looked away. "You don't want to tell me."

"No! I do, Bant, really, but I can't right now. It wouldn't be right."

She was quiet for several strides. "Well, okay, I'll wait."

There were many small exercise rooms scattered throughout the Temple, but only one Obstacle Room, a huge rectangular space equipped with a thickly padded floor and numerous large blocks, ropes, ladders and poles. It was used exclusively for practicing agility, and had been the scene of a great deal of despair and frustration for many students. Leaping and flipping were not easy skills to master.

Obi-Wan loved it. He might not be the best student in the Temple with a lightsaber, and somewhat erratic in his control of the Force, but he was very good at flips and leaps, achieving an effortless connection with the Force in those movements that was difficult to maintain at other times.

Eager to begin, he removed his belt and outer tunic, draping them casually over a padded bench near the door. The others did the same, and Garen and Reeft moved to a clear space at one end of the room, assuming the first positions of a classic lightsaber drill. Bant whisked up one of the tall ladders and began a graceful walk across a thin pole toward another ladder at the far end. Obi-Wan ran to the room's center, feeling his body loosen and warm, and leaped to the top of the room's largest block, flipping once in mid-air to do so. From the pole high above, Bant called, "I wish I could do that so easily!"

Obi-Wan grinned up at her, feeling the familiar exhilaration take hold. He flipped downward, over three more blocks, and then began a fast-paced circuit of the room, leaping, spinning, shifting, his mind empty of everything but the Force and the joy of movement. Garen and Reeft finished their drill, and drifted over to sit on several smaller blocks, watching Bant hop down from the ladder, and Obi-Wan finish his circuit with a skillful forward roll that ended with him sitting cross-legged at their feet.

Garen shook his head with an exaggerated sigh. "You don't have to make it obvious that you're better than everyone at that."

Obi-Wan laughed, rolling backward to lay flat and stare up at the ceiling. "Not better than everyone," he said. "Maybe just better than you, right?"

Garen snorted. Bant gave Obi-Wan a playful nudge with her foot. "It's almost time for noonmeal, and we can't go like this." She pulled at Reeft's sweaty tunic. "Let's clean up."

Reeft, who was always hungry, stood with alacrity and strode toward the door. The three others grinned at each other, following more slowly and stopping at the door to slip back into their outer tunics.

"I don't know," said Obi-Wan, teasingly, to Reeft. "Maybe we should skip noonmeal, just this once."

Reeft looked up, horrified, causing all of them to laugh. Obi-wan had slung his belt around his waist, and was nearly finished fastening it when he realized that his lightsaber was no longer attached to it.

"Does one of you have my 'saber?" he asked. His friends paused in fastening their own belts and stared at him, puzzlement and then concern dawning on their faces. Garen dropped to his knees to look under the bench, while Reeft turned in a full circle, searching the ground. Obi-Wan and Bant fruitlessly checked the perimeter of the room.

No lightsaber appeared.

The four studied each other, disturbed.

"It couldn't have just walked away by itself," Bant said finally.

"Well," said Garen, sharing a baffled look with Obi-Wan, "someone must have helped it on its way."

* * *

In a windowless room dimly lit by a portable lightwand, a dark figure bent over an improvised workstation constructed of a flat panel laid across two barrel-shaped containers. With smooth skillful movements, he locked an odd, disc-shaped device into a small power cell, and then maneuvered the cell into the handle of a lightsaber. With an audible click, the cell slid into place. The robed man activated the weapon, and studied its humming blade carefully. With a satisfied nod, he switched it off, and, then, as footsteps sounded outside the chamber, concealed it within the dark recesses of his cloak.

The door slid aside, and Bruck Chun entered, breathing hard.

The man called Morran raised an inquiring eyebrow.

Bruck grinned triumphantly.

"You were successful in your mission then." Morran's voice was tinged with warm approval.

"It was easy. They were all so busy showing off for each other, they didn't notice anything."

Bruck unhooked a lightsaber from his belt where it hung next to his own, and tossed it onto the table.

"Morran," he said. "Now will you explain why we needed to take his 'saber?"

"Why, to keep him off-balance. To give you the edge in battle."

"He'll just go request another one. That's what any student would do if he lost it."

"But it will be unfamiliar, not precisely the same as the weapon he has used for so long. It gives you an advantage."

"I don't need an advantage." Bruck scowled. "I can beat Kenobi in any fight!"

Morran smiled. "I'm sure you can. But it is best to look for the unsought path, right."

This was a Jedi phrase; Bruck had heard it dozens of times from the Masters. He looked curiously at the man, wondering.

Morran ignored his unvoiced question. "Go now. You'll be missed."

As the door closed behind Bruck, the man motioned to the corner of the room and a Temple Service Droid hummed out of the shadows. The TSDs were flexible machines, whose simple minds could be instructed in a wide variety of tasks. Removing the lightsaber that he had concealed from Bruck, Morran handed it to the DROID, and murmured a short set of instructions.

Then he watched the droid trundle off, a faint smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

"Good," he said. "Very good."


	3. Chapter 3

**Joint Strength Part Three**

During the noonmeal, Obi-Wan's mysteriously missing lightsaber was the sole topic of conversation. Garen and Reeft stumbled over each other in proposing a series of increasingly wild and improbable scenarios to explain the disappearance, until both Bant and Obi-Wan were choking with laughter. Their table was the most raucous in the room. Obi-Wan noticed many covert glances and open stares directed their way.

So much for attempting to look insignificant, he thought wryly.

A soft chime sounded, warning the students that only a few minutes remained before their afternoon classes. Obi-Wan's three friends shared a panicked glance and hurriedly stood.

"We'll see you tonight, all right?" Bant said.

Obi-Wan nodded, and watched them join the stream of students pouring out of the dining room. A tinge of melancholy had settled over his heart. He was surprised at this, for he had thought that reuniting with his friends would bring pure happiness. It _was_ good to see them, and talk in the old way, but Obi-Wan felt oddly disconnected. A few moments of meditation showed him the reason: he didn't belong here any longer, not as he had a mere two weeks before. He hadn't realized how much his sense of "home" had become centered on his Master, even after only a few short days of apprenticeship.

Unofficial apprenticeship.

He shook himself, flinging that thought away. Worry is a symptom of weakness, he thought. So Qui-Gon isn't here. I can still do as he asked and work ahead a little.

He needed to get a datapad from his room, so, scooping his cloak up from the table, he left the dining hall and turned toward the Student's Wing, taking a shorter route through a secondary hallway. He had nearly reached the main hall when he felt it: a dark ripple in the Force, so faint as to be hardly noticed, but present nevertheless. Receding deep inside himself, he tried to focus on it, pin it down, but it slipped away elusively.

He was concentrating so fiercely that he didn't perceive the footsteps behind him. A rough hand struck him, hard, between the shoulder blades, and sent him stumbling forward. He grasped a door frame, preventing a fall, and whirled around. In front of him stood his old nemesis, Bruck Chun, and several of his friends. Bruck's face was innocent, and his hands spread with exaggerated contrition.

"Oh, so sorry, Oafy-Wan," he said. "Didn't see you there. You really shouldn't stand around daydreaming, you know. Some people have places to go, and you're in the way."

Obi-Wan swallowed the quick anger that filled his throat, and managed a cool face as he inclined his head slightly, and said, "Hello, Bruck."

"So you're back already, Oafy? Not good enough to be a farmer either, huh?"

"My mission on Bandomeer was successful." Obi-Wan tried to speak formally, to distance himself from Bruck's provocation.

"Oh, your mission!" Bruck opened his eyes wide, mocking. "Big, important mission, huh, deciding where to put the dung heap? Or maybe the best way to sweep out the barn?"

Bruck's friends snickered loudly. Obi-Wan felt his face flush, and decided to leave, immediately, before this escalated into something he would regret. As he turned to go, however, he saw Bruck's hand raised for another contemptuous shove. Spinning back toward his antagonist, Obi-Wan blocked him with a forearm and easily deflected the blow. The taunting grin slid off Bruck's face, replaced with anger as he brought up his other hand and struck furiously at Obi-Wan's face. Obi-Wan flung himself back to avoid the blow, and allowed the fall to continue, rolling backward in a quick, graceful move that brought him to his feet again three meters down the hall. He cocked one eyebrow challengingly, bait that he knew Bruck wouldn't be able to resist. As his opponent charged forward, he stepped aside at the last moment, flinging his cloak so that it tangled with Bruck's legs and sent him crashing to the floor. Bruck's companions were momentarily stymied, and Obi-Wan smiled at their stunned faces. Waving a hand over Bruck, who was struggling to his feet, he said, "On Bandomeer, that's how you catch a particularly stupid herd animal."

A dark fury filled Bruck's face. With a incoherent snarl, he reached for his lightsaber, but one of his companions hissed, "Master Adim!"

The tall, beautiful Master had indeed rounded the corner from the main hall. She studied them for a long moment, face expressionless, and then asked, "May I be of service here?"

"No, Master," Obi-Wan said, just as Bruck gritted out, "All is well, Master."

The Master lifted a rather disbelieving brow, but she nodded and passed by, continuing down the hall. Obi-Wan turned to go in her wake, but an burgeoning sense of shame stopped him. He was suddenly remembering Qui-Gon's words: old struggles, old traps. New attitudes.

He swallowed and turned back. Bruck was walking away; his companions had already turned the corner. Obi-Wan stepped after him and reached for his shoulder to stop him, saying, "Bruck. I acted very badly just now. . ."

Whirling, Bruck chopped downward viciously with his deactivated lightsaber. The blunt end of the weapon caught Obi-Wan squarely on the outside of his right knee, the sudden intense pain dropping him like a stone. As he doubled over, Bruck's knee struck his chest with the force of a blaster bolt. Obi-Wan's breath left him with a loud gasp, and he fell heavily to his knees, where a sickening jolt of liquid pain gushed through his right knee, and sent him careening over to one side. He lay still, gasping.

Bruck stood over him for a moment, and then walked away, hissing, "Maybe someone'll find you here choking like a fish, Farmer Oafy."

He turned the corner, and the hall was empty but for the sound of Obi-Wan's painful, rasping breaths.

* * *

The planet Triki had a wide equatorial zone, so wide that it encompassed both of the world's major continents, providing them with a richly green, lush rainforest environment. Qui-Gon Jinn appreciated the rare beauty of such a world, but he also knew from recent experience that the emerald gorgeousness was accompanied by suffocating heat and humidity, drenching rain, and clouds of attacking insects. His mouth curved in a tiny smile. Despite all of that, it was pulsing with the Living Force; he luxuriated in the feeling for a moment.

His pilot muttered something. Qui-Gon glanced down at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear what you said."

She looked embarrassed. "No, I'm sorry, Master Jedi. I wasn't really talking to you. I was merely. . .commenting. . . on the heat."

Qui-Gon's smile grew fractionally larger. The damp heat was rolling through the open door of the courier ship like a great incoming tide. The pilot's face was already streaked with perspiration. "But, at least," she said, brightening, "I won't be here long enough to really suffer."

A frown replaced the half smile on the Jedi's face. "I beg your pardon?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" The pilot looked up at him. "I have to take a document delivery to Deigidd. Then, I'll swing back here and pick you up again. It's not an urgent delivery; that's why I had time to drop you here in the first place. But it still has to get there by tomorrow, their time."

Qui-Gon's frown deepened. "You'll return when?"

"Oh, I suppose about thirty-six hours. The Chancellor's office said that would be plenty of time for you to do. . .whatever it is you've got to do here."

"Yes. Plenty of time." Qui-Gon shook off the frown. There was no alternative, and thirty-six hours wasn't terribly long. Obi-Wan would be all right. . .

He realized that the pilot was gazing at him with an expression of concern. "Is this. . .acceptable, Master Jedi?" she asked, a bit hesitantly.

"Of course," he hastened to reassure her. "This is a lovely place to visit; I'll enjoy my thirty-six hours."

She swatted away an iridescent flying beetle at least half as big as her hand, and nodded doubtfully. "Whatever you say."

She turned back to the craft's interior, regarded its echoing emptiness for a moment, and said, "Well, since you don't have any luggage to offload, I guess I'll be on my way."

Qui-Gon smiled his thanks. "In thirty-six hours, then."

"Right." She gave him a stiff half-bow that was oddly formal from so breezy a person, and disappeared into the ship. Qui-Gon strode down the ramp, noticing as he did a small delegation of Trikan soldiers marching smartly up the wooden walkway that led to and from the docking pit. His escort, he assumed. Behind them, a nattily-dressed, pinched-mouthed man of indeterminate age scurried frantically to keep up, obviously furious at the resulting loss to his dignity. This could only be a government official, most likely a Cultural Officer. Fortunately, Qui-Gon was well-rehearsed in Trikan taboos, and his equipment belt was empty, save for his lightsaber.

The Trikans did not shun technology; in fact, their weapons and communications systems were highly advanced. But integrating modern computers with ancient religion had resulted in a complicated set of iron-clad taboos, particularly regarding communication, which was sacred to their gods. As a result, any visitor to Triki was politely but firmly requested to leave all communication devices aboard his ship. A visitor with a comlink would be met with sideways stares and grim-mouthed disapproval, whereas Qui-Gon's lightsaber, a deadly weapon, had been greeted on his former visit with casual glances and open admiration.

The honor guard snapped to a halt at the bottom of the ramp. Breathing heavily, the government official pushed through them and planted himself directly in Qui-Gon's path.

"Welcome, Sacred Messenger. I am Cultural Officer Kai, sent to escort you to His Highness, King Orthu Bela, and introduce you to the Court."

"I am already acquainted with His Highness and the Court. My name is Qui-Gon Jinn. I delivered the Treaty a month ago."

The official showed no sign of recognition or even acknowledgment of Qui-Gon's words. He turned smoothly on his heel and led the way back up the pathway. The soldiers pivoted to follow, but one of them, Qui-Gon noted, shot the Jedi an amused glance from under half-closed lids. Qui-Gon returned a faint smile, and fell into step beside him.

"I am Qui-Gon Jinn," he tried again.

"General Molu." The soldier jerked his chin in the direction of the official ahead of them. "I apologize for him. He takes his position _most_ seriously."

"That's a small fault, really. I am honored that a general would come to greet me."

Molu's face grew solemn. "The gods themselves sent for you by name. How can I do less than come personally to meet you?"

"I'm honored, nevertheless." Qui-Gon paused, and then asked, "How is it that the gods asked for me?"

"The Oracle spoke the instructions. It said that the treaty would be unblessed without the Messenger's name to validate it."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Must all treaties be validated by their bearer?"

"Not at all." Molu smiled. "In fact, everyone was amazed by the Oracle's words. But they were very clear, and must be obeyed."

"Of course."

"Which is why all the tribal leaders are so relieved that you agreed to return. No one wants to resume the war. No one."

Qui-Gon could understand that. The Trikan intertribal wars had been deadly and protracted. He wanted to inquire further, but, as they turned a corner, he glanced back and saw that the soldier marching directly behind him was aiming a baleful glare at his back. When his glance intercepted the soldier's glare, the young man dropped his eyes hurriedly, leaving Qui-Gon wondering.

Could it be that not everyone looked with favor on the Sacred Messenger?

He had no further time to consider this, as they swept through the huge, carved doors of the King's main residence, and into the gigantic square room called the Court of Audience.

"Ah, Master Jedi!" The bellow echoed from the far side of the Court. A towering, muscular man dressed only in the short skirt of Trikan royalty came striding forward.

Qui-Gon smiled and bowed. "Your Majesty."

"I can't tell you how grateful we are that you've come. Very inconvenient for you!"

Despite his intimidating physical presence, Orthu Bela was a jovial, solicitous man. Qui-Gon considered him the most congenial royal he had ever met.

"I'm glad to be of service again," he said. "I must admit to being surprised by the summons, though."

"You, surprised!" Orthu Bela chuckled loudly and clapped Qui-Gon on the shoulder. "You should have seen the nobles' faces when we received the Oracle's message. No one had ever heard anything like it."

Qui-Gon felt his entire being go still as a trickle of suspicion dripped down his spine. Both Molu and now the King had emphasized the strangeness of the instructions that had brought him here. "Your Majesty," he said slowly, "may I visit your Oracle?"

* * *

For long minutes, Obi-Wan lay fighting to take air into uncooperative lungs. His mind was a mass of pain and confusion, and he could not quiet it enough to bring the Force to bear. Slowly, his breathing returned enough for him to struggle to a sitting position, back supported by the cool metal wall of the hallway, and his mind focused enough to surround the pain with the Force's cooling balm. Holding carefully to the wall, he stood. The pain in his torso was receding, but his knee screamed in protest as he tried to step away from the wall.

He found it difficult to accept that a fellow student had attacked him with so little warning and such great ferocity. Yes, there had been rancor between himself and Bruck, but he had thought it an understandable rivalry, with unfortunately predictable results. This attack had been far different. Obi-Wan had seen enough hatred in the past two weeks to recognize it in Bruck's final actions, but he didn't understand it. Contempt, dislike: he could see the reasons for those. He knew he shared those feelings with Bruck, much as he was trying to rise above them. But outright hatred between two Jedi seemed inconceivable to him.

Qui-Gon, he thought. I wish Qui-Gon were here.

But his master was out of reach. He was alone.

Setting his jaw grimly, he began to walk. The medic room was only two corridors away, but his face was chalky white and streaked with sweat when he keyed the infirmary's door.

* * *

"You attacked him?" Morran's voice was even, but a muscle twitched in one cheek.

Bruck looked down sullenly. "He started it! He. . .tripped me, in front of my friends!"

"I see. So, in retaliation for a moment's embarrassment, you have jeopardized our entire plan of action."

Bruck's head jerked upright. "What do you mean?"

"Don't be a fool. Surely you can see that, from this moment on, anything amiss in Kenobi's life will be automatically blamed on you."

"I haven't done anything else to him."

"No? Well, I have. And since the point of all this was to make you look impressive and him look like a sniveling whiner, you should have had the intelligence to realize that you must remain completely above suspicion. What if news of this reaches Qui-Gon Jinn? Will he choose you then?"

Bruck flinched. "Kenobi won't tell. It makes him look bad too."

Morran's eyes narrowed. "Exactly. Kenobi won't tell. Your foolish action will make him reluctant to tell anyone anything."

Bruck shrugged. "I don't see why it's so important."

Morran turned away. "Leave me."

"But Morran. . ."

"Go. Now."

Bruck opened his mouth to protest, but something in the man's too-quiet tone warned him, and he shuffled away.

In the dim room, Morran's eyes glowed with dark emotion. "Stupid boy. You have no idea. . ."


	4. Chapter 4

**Joint Strength, Part Four**

The medic who applied the healing gel to Obi-wan's injuries was required to ask their cause, but Obi-Wan was not required to answer. Mouth in a firm line, he said only, "It was a personal matter."

The droid scanned his chest, looking for any rib fractures. "You are fortunate, young sir," it said finally. "A blow of that severity is almost always accompanied by fracture, but you seem to have escaped."

It closed up the scanner and fixed him with a severe mechanical eye. "No strenuous activity, of any kind, for at least 24 hours. You must allow the gel to do its work."

Obi-Wan nodded meekly, relieved that the pain in his knee was already subsiding. "I'll be careful," he said, sliding gingerly off the examining platform.

He deliberately tried to cultivate a new attitude as he walked back to his chamber. Even though Bruck's attack had been vicious and unexpected, he could not honestly claim that he had not provoked it. His conduct earlier had not been terrible, but it hadn't been blameless either. The old Obi-Wan would have been imagining ways to retaliate; this newer one would try to let his anger dissipate. He would remain calm.

As he entered the corridor where his room was located, he was surprised to see a Temple Service Droid humming quietly to itself outside his door. As he approached, it beeped a recognition code, and said, "You are Obi-wan Kenobi."

Obi-Wan nodded, although it wasn't really necessary.

"It was noticed that you have lost your lightsaber. A new one is provided." The droid offered it expectantly.

Obi-Wan's face burned. Someone had seen him without it, and assumed it was gone because of his own carelessness. Suddenly, he remembered Master Adim, in the hallway earlier, her wise eyes studying him and Bruck so closely. An inward groan seized him. Was this her doing? The thought took hold, and crystallized. It would be very like the serene Adim to notice his lack of weapon and organize this pointed but subtle return. He would be so embarrassed when he next encountered her! And how would she react to the news that Qui-Gon had requested him as Padawan? Would she disapprove because she thought he was careless? Would she tell the Council about the scene she had witnessed in the hall? The TSD was patiently waiting for him to take the lightsaber. When he slowly grasped it and attached it to his belt, the droid turned and glided away. Wrenching his mind from the worried circle it was running, Obi-Wan keyed his chamber's entrance.

At once, the acrid smell of burnt fabric assaulted him. All other thought disappeared under a wave of foreboding as he leaped forward and slammed his hand over the lightkey, and then stared in shock at the devastation illuminated by the glowing lamps.

A Jedi student's chamber is not large, but over the years Obi-Wan had filled this space with a significant accumulation of tiny droids, drawings and mock-ups of inventive new miniatures, datapads, holocubes, schematics of various lightsaber designs, and small gifts from friends. All were destroyed. The floor was covered with dismembered droids and smashed electronic components; his drawings were ripped into long shreds. The cushions and blankets on his sleep couch had been slashed with a lightsaber, and burnt in many places. His small bag, dropped casually be the door when he had arrived this morning, was cut in two, and the contents reduced to tiny scraps. His spare tunic was knotted contemptuously around one of the lamps, still smoking slightly.

Then his eyes fell on his small desk, and a low cry escaped him.

Obi-Wan Kenobi, despite all of the varied possessions in this room, owned only one object that he held truly dear. It was a tiny sculpture, about twenty centimeters high, depicting a many-pointed star surrounded by a swirling galaxy. When he had been taken from his family as an infant to become a Jedi student, his mother had carved the sculpture and sent it with him. The Knight who had discovered him and brought him to the Temple had told him of his mother's words as she tucked the little package into the blanket wrapped around him:

"Tell him, someday when he is older, that this trinket is a picture of all his family's hopes. In giving him to the Jedi, we are giving him the universe. Promise you will tell him that."

And the Knight had. Obi-Wan had no memory of leaving his family, and saw them only rarely, but the sculpture and the love behind it were his most valued possession.

His only treasure.

Now it lay in a hundred splinters, mounded into a little pile in the exact center of the desktop, a potent mockery of all that the tiny ornament had represented. Whoever had done this had wanted him to feel the loss as deeply as possible.

It was too much to accept. In one day, he had been divested of his lightsaber, attacked by a fellow student, and now stripped of all he had ever possessed.

Bruck, he thought. Only Bruck could be behind this.

The cold rage that filled him now was the strongest he had ever experienced. He twisted violently, ignoring the screech from his injured knee, and strode out the door. He would find Bruck, now, and force him to pay for the pain he had caused. His furious imagination presented him with an image of Bruck cowering at his feet, and he gloried in it.

He walked three steps and then stopped, breathing hard, struggling mightily. TheTemple -trained part of his mind was screaming at him to _see_ himself, to acknowledge the darkness of the hard anger filling him. The power it was giving him was huge and strong, and if he met Bruck like this, he would surely defeat him as easily as a sandcat dispatches a rodent, but it was a dark, black power. As Obi-Wan gained enough calm to back away from the anger, he was appalled by the seductive strength of it. He turned on his heel and walked back into his ruined chamber. His hands were shaking.

Focus! Think! The same Temple training commanded him. You don't _know_ that it was Bruck.

But if it wasn't Bruck, a small inner voice asked, who could it possibly have been? Who would do something like this?

"I need my Master," he whispered. "I don't know what to do."

There are other Masters here, he reminded himself. But the fears of earlier that day rose up, and now an added fear joined them. If he told them about this, they would perceive his anger. Perhaps they would see this as another sign that he was unworthy to be Padawan to so great a Knight as Qui-Gon Jinn.

No. He must handle this problem himself. Somehow.

* * *

Qui-Gon Jinn stood before the Oracle of Triki.

He was rather surprised to discover that, despite being housed in an elaborately-carved wooden temple, the Oracle was a simple computer terminal. It stood on a thin pedestal centered in a large expanse of highly-polished wooden floor, lit from above by a single hidden lightsource. Lush bouquets of slightly wilted flowers and leaves were heaped at the pedestal's base. The effect was faintly incongruous, until one considered the Trikan aptitude for fusing technology with religion. Perhaps it _was_ only a computer terminal, but it was also the mouth of the Trikan gods, and was obviously treated with great respect.

Tread carefully, he reminded himself. He turned to General Molu and Cultural Officer Kai, who had accompanied him.

"May I approach it?" he asked.

"Of course." Kai spoke rather pompously. "The Oracle welcomes all seekers."

Qui-Gon inclined his head respectfully, and crossed the wooden floor, his footsteps echoing in the hushed silence. He circled the Oracle, examining it carefully, and finally said, "There are no outside ports."

Kai seemed horrified by the suggestion. "Of course not! The Oracle needs no contact from outside the Temple to speak!"

Molu smiled. "There's no question of tampering, if I understand the direction your thoughts are taking."

"Tampering!" Kai gasped.

"If someone wished to tamper," Molu continued as if Kai hadn't spoken, "they would have to come physically here to the Temple, and, as you see, the Oracle is constantly guarded."

Qui-Gon had indeed noticed the heavily-armed Trikan standing stiffly beside the entrance.

"The guard is changed every four hours, day and night, so there is no question of fatigue."

"And the guards are. . .completely trustworthy?" This was an awkward question, but Qui-Gon felt it had to be asked.

Molu nodded once, sharply. "Completely. I've trained many of them myself."

Qui-Gon smiled. "An efficient system."

"Yes. The Oracle is the center of our way of life. It must be protected."

Qui-Gon nodded slowly. The system seemed impenetrable in its blunt simplicity, and yet. . . why had the Oracle inexplicably called for him? Why did he have a nagging sense of wrongness?

He glanced at Kai, and asked, "Will it answer my questions?"

"The Oracle welcomes all seekers," Kai repeated.

"It may take some time," Qui-Gon said.

Molu grinned at him, fully understanding what Qui-Gon was saying. "Come, Kai, let us leave the Master Jedi to his task." He strode out of the building, Kai trailing rather reluctantly in his wake.

Frowning, Qui-Gon bent over the Oracle. After a moment's study, he realized to his relief that it was mostly voice-activated.

"Oracle." he said in a low voice. "I wish to discuss the Sacred Messenger."

"As you wish. All seekers are welcome," it replied, its voice mellifluous and very feminine.

Qui-Gon blinked, and then, recovering quickly, asked, "Why was the Sacred Messenger notified of his duty so long after he originally came?"

"His duty was not known originally."

"Why?"

"We had not been informed."

"Who is 'we'?"

"The gods."

Qui-Gon absorbed this. Slowly he asked, "Do not the gods know all? Why did they require information?"

The Oracle was silent for a long moment. Then it said, "I have no answer for that question. Do you have another?"

Qui-Gon thought for a moment. "Can you tell me who it was that informed the gods that the Sacred Messenger must re-."

Before he could finish the word, his Force-heightened senses warned him of movement in the air behind him. In less than an instant, he activated his lightsaber and spun, the fiery blade slicing easily through the metal shaft of the spear aimed at his back. The spear head clattered uselessly to the floor, and the spear's wielder stumbled forward, suddenly off-balance as his weapon failed to find its mark. With a graceful, deadly movement, Qui-Gon struck out, his forearm catching the attacker across the throat like a bar of steel. The man collapsed to the floor with a choking cry.

In the light shining down on the Oracle, Qui-Gon saw that his attacker was a Trikan soldier, much like the one who had been guarding the entrance, though younger. With a shock, Qui-Gon realized that it was the soldier who had glared at him earlier. Glancing up, he saw that the original guard was gone; the entrance was unguarded. He turned his attention back to the fallen youth, still choking and fighting for breath. Qui-Gon searched him quickly for other weapons, removing two knives and shockingly, a small, lethal-looking microblaster. He had never seen a Trikan carry such a weapon; it was forbidden by taboo.

"Well, my young friend," he said kindly, "you certainly came prepared for battle. And skillfully, too. I didn't sense you until you were quite near."

"You shouldn't have sensed me at all," the youth rasped. "What have you done with the guard?" A hint of pride crossed the soldier's face, and his voice became boastful. "I disabled him easily. You didn't even notice."

Qui-Gon nodded. "Yes. How did you manage that?"

"I can mask my presence; I am as silent as air."

Qui-Gon leaned back, studying him intently. "That's interesting."

His casual tone provoked a virulent glare from the young soldier, Ignoring it, Qui-Gon stretched out with the Force, probing gently, seeking an impression of the boy. After a moment, he realized that his captive was aware of the Force, and was attempting, with little success, to control it.

"Who has been training you?" he asked.

A startled glint flared in the soldier's eyes, replaced quickly with defiance. He clamped his mouth shut, obviously determined to speak no further.

Qui-Gon was very disturbed. There were undercurrents flowing here that he did not understand. Helping the youth to his feet, he said, "Perhaps it would be best for you to speak with your own people about this."

"I will say nothing," the boy protested shrilly, fear sparking in his eyes.

At that moment, General Molu walked back in, calling cheerfully, "Friend Jedi, I forgot to tell you that the Oracle is . . ."

He trailed off as he took in the scene before him.

"Teek? What. . .?" Molu stared at the young soldier for a moment, and then looked to Qui-Gon for explanation.

"I was speaking with the Oracle, when this young man approached from behind with a spear, and . . .attacked. I was forced to defend myself rather abruptly." Qui-Gon gestured at the knives and blaster lying on the floor. "He had some secondary weapons, as well."

The cheerful friendliness had drained out of Molu's face, replaced by an iron grimness. Stepping forward, he struck the youth across the face, so hard that his head snapped back sharply.

"You have shamed all tribes by attacking our most-honored guest." Molu's tone was quiet and implacable. "Teek, what say you?"

"I say nothing."

"Nothing? You offer no explanation, no defense?"

The boy shook his head, lifting his chin in blatant defiance.

"Then," Molu said, very softly, "you face the _trogo_."

"No!" Teek's face sagged.

"Will you speak, then?"

Slowly, the youth set his jaw. "No."

"So, the _trogo_ is our only recourse."

He grasped Teek above one elbow, turning him toward the door. Pushing the boy ahead, he looked back over his shoulder at Qui-Gon. "I am sorry. You must come as well. The gods demand that the accuser be present at the _trogo_."

"May I ask what this is?"

"It is the way of truth," Molu turned away, his shoulders bent as if under a great weight. "For the traitor, it is a hard way."

Pushing Teek ahead of him, Molu led Qui-Gon back to the Residence. In the Court, a lively crowd was gathered, shouting to be heard above bright, rhythmic music. As the three approached the center of the room, though, a gradual silence descended until, when they reached Orthu Bela, the room was completely still. Everyone present heard Molu say, "We must have the _trogo_."

To Qui-Gon's surprise, no one questioned this or asked for any details. A large open space was cleared, and Teek was ordered to kneel there. Molu and Orthu Bela consulted together for several long minutes, and then the king strode forward and stood looking down at Teek, an expression of deep sadness replacing his usual jocularity.

"Teek, son of Jiro, I am your king. What say you?"

The young man turned his head to one side, refusing to meet Orthu Bela's eyes.

"You are my king," he finally muttered.

"You acknowledge my authority, yet you refuse to explain or defend your traitorous actions. For this, you face the _trogo_. Do you accept it?"

"No! I do not accept it!"

The king's voice was regretful. "I judge that the _trogo_ will nevertheless be performed. Submit to it, Teek. You know the consequences otherwise."

The boy looked up, a snarl disfiguring his face. "Do it, then! I can resist it! You will learn nothing from me! My strength is greater than some ancient tradition."

The king shook his head. "You say that easily now. But then, you have never actually seen the _trogo_, have you?"

Sullenly, Teek dropped his eyes.

Orthu Bela stepped back, and Molu and five other Trikans, prominent Court members by their dress, formed a circle around Teek. Each placed his hand, palm inward, on the forehead of the one to his right, and all focused an unblinking stare at the young man in their midst.

For a long while, nothing seemed to happen. But Qui-Gon saw great beads of sweat forming along Teek's hairline, and his neck began to bend forward with agonizing slowness, as if the boy was fighting the movement with all his power. Qui-Gon searched the Force, but beyond the pulsing life in the room, he sensed nothing. Whatever was happening here, it was not specifically Force-generated.

Suddenly, the boy gave a great, gasping cry, and slumped forward to lie still and crumpled on the damp stone floor. The six men around him dropped their hands, but remained gazing down on him. From across the room, Qui-Gon could feel their sorrow.

After a long interval, the fallen figure stirred, and the boy sat up. One of the Trikans rushed forward with a chair, and two of the Court members helped Teek into it. Molu motioned for Qui-Gon to join them.

Qui-Gon entered the circle and then stopped, shocked to see that Teek's eyes were dull, devoid of any intelligence. He turned to Molu, who said softly, "The _trogo_ is a way of sifting the mind for information. If the subject submits willingly and opens his mind, there is no discomfort or side-effect."

"And he did not submit," Qui-Gon said sadly.

"He tried to hide the information. You see the result."

Qui-Gon knelt, and cupped the boy's chin with one hand, studying the empty eyes. After a silent moment, he whispered, "What information was he hiding?"

"It was he who tampered with the Oracle."

"But why? I've never met Teek before. Why did he want me here so badly that he broke taboo to make it happen?"

Molu's forehead was creased with concern. "We cannot tell you. The boy's mental abilities have been strengthened somehow. We were only able to glean the information about the Oracle, and several vague images."

"Images of what?"

Molu frowned. "They were very unclear. But we saw a figure of a man dressed all in black, and a strange mark."

"A mark?"

"Yes. We could not see where the mark was located, or even its size or color, but the shape of it was very clear. Come, I'll draw it for you."

Molu led Qui-Gon out the side door, where the courtyard torches burned very brightly. Stooping, he pressed his finger into the soft earth, and traced a mark.

A broken circle.

Qui-Gon's whole being turned cold and still, his focus shrinking until that simple mark filled all his vision.

Molu looked up at him, and then straightened hurriedly to catch Qui-Gon's arm.

"Master Jedi! You know this mark?"

"Yes," Qui-Gon answered. "I know it. I know it very well."


	5. Chapter 5

**Joint Strength Part Five**

Avoiding Molu's questioning gaze, Qui-Gon stared into the deepening dusk, past the flaring torches. Unbidden and unsought, a memory unreeled itself there, in the darkness: a young face, twisted with hatred, the eyes staring at him unblinkingly as the boy pressed a burning circle of gold to his own face. A broken circle. Qui-Gon closed his eyes against the memory, but he could still hear the faint hiss as the fiery metal made its permanent mark.

When he opened his eyes, his face was completely calm. "It is the mark of an old enemy. Whatever evil he was planning through Teek, he was aiming it at me. I'm very sorry that my past should be the cause of a young man's corruption."

Molu shook his head. "You bear no blame in this. Teek made his own choice. He knew the right path, and forsook it willingly."

"Perhaps." Qui-Gon paused, thinking, and then said slowly, "May I examine Teek's quarters? I might find some clue there to their larger plan, whatever it was."

"Of course. I'll go with you."

"That's kind of you. I can do it alone, though, if you have other duties."

"No. Teek was one of my soldiers, a boy I trained. I am as concerned with the scope of his folly as you are."

Qui-Gon nodded, silently admonishing himself. He should have been mindful of the general's grief at the loss of his soldier. My focus is too inward just now, he thought. Leave it. The past is past.

He followed Molu down another wooden walkway, this one parallel to a small, lazily-flowing stream. The torches were soon left behind, and the only illumination came from starlight and the huge glowing moon, reflecting brokenly in the stream. Molu glanced up at it, and then stooped, dipping a handful of water and flinging it up toward the sky.

"The gods walk tonight," he murmured.

Though he didn't understand the small ritual, Qui-Gon felt it soothe his spirit. The gods are walking, and the Living Force is flowing strong, he told himself.

The quiet interlude ended abruptly as they rounded a huge tree and approached a clearing filled with tiny round buildings, many soldiers and dozens of torches. The stream gurgled off into the dark jungle, and Qui-Gon and Molu walked into the light, their presence causing an immediate dampening of the raucous talk and loud laughter enveloping the compound.

"This is a Soldier's Circle," Molu said. "Teek lived here, but I'm not sure which house was his."

He beckoned to a soldier in the nearest group, and she jogged over to them, trying unsuccessfully to hide a look of foreboding.

"You have a duty for me, General?"

"No. Just a question. You know the soldier Teek, son of Jira?"

She nodded. "Yes, but I haven't seen him all day."

"Which was his house?"

She jerked her chin toward the darkened edge of the clearing. "Over there. The last one. He used to live near the center, but he traded quarters to be near the edge. We all thought that was strange. I mean, who wants to live right up tight with the trees? More snakes that way."

She smiled at them invitingly, obviously hoping for a hint about the nature of their business here. But Molu gave her an uncommunicative nod, and said only, "We thank you, soldier." His tone was dismissive.

Slightly reluctantly, she dipped her head and crossed her wrists in front of her face, palms inward. Molu repeated the gesture, and she walked away, not without a subtle backward glance.

Molu and Qui-Gon exchanged a faint smile and strode over to the indicated house. Set somewhat apart from the others, its isolated look was magnified by tightly closed doors and windows. Qui-Gon frowned. The other houses had every portal wide open, to catch the slightest breeze.

It's wrong. Wrong! The Force shouted at him.

Molu was reaching for the latch on the door, opening it, starting to step inside. In a blur of motion, Qui-Gon flung out his arm, catching Molu's shoulders with the Force and yanking him violently backward. As he fell into Qui-Gon and they tumbled to the ground, Qui-Gon heard a deadly whisper split the air above their heads, and tracked it to a tree several meters away.

The two men picked themselves up, and Molu regarded Qui-Gon wryly. "Your methods are most direct, friend Jedi. But I thank you for them. Did you hear it go by?"

Qui-Gon nodded, impressed that Molu had detected the sound as well. He strode to the tree and, after a moment's study, found a small metal dart embedded deeply in the bark. As Molu joined him, he asked, "Do you recognize this?"

"Yes. A _wik_. Most likely poisoned. We use them for hunting small game." His voice turned grim. "And occasionally for assassination."

"He set a trap. Was he expecting to be caught?"

"I don't know. I teach my soldiers to prepare for all outcomes. Perhaps it was merely a precaution."

"Well, if he was setting traps, he must have something to protect. Shall we see if we can find it?"

"I think not, my friend. We should try again tomorrow, in the light. Where there is one snake, there may be others."

"Hmmm. Trikan wisdom?"

Molu grinned. "No. Just a fact of Trikan life."

* * *

Rising early from a fitful night's sleep, Obi-Wan worked for two hours, gathering up the fragments of his old life and hauling them to the incinerator shaft, requisitioning new clothing and a cushion for his sleep couch to replace the slashed and burned one. When he had finished, the chamber was clean and utterly bare, and his already-injured body heavy with weariness. He remembered the medic droid's admonition from earlier: no strenuous activity for 24 hours. A small, ironic smile crossed his face. Right, he thought.

Slowly, painfully, he cleaned himself up and pulled on his new set of clothing, but as he walked from the bath back into his room, the bleak emptiness of it struck him like a physical blow. His eye fell at once on the small pile of splinters on the desktop, the only evidence remaining of the destruction, and suddenly he knew that he couldn't face this barren room a moment longer. He turned abruptly and went to find his friends.

They were, not surprisingly, huddled over the remains of breakfast in the mostly deserted Dining Room. Obi-Wan couldn't help smiling. The four of them had always been forced to linger over meals, because Reeft was always the last one finished. He certainly enjoyed his food.

Despite the smile, Obi-Wan's three friends saw at once the hard shell masking his face.

"What happened?" Bant asked, drawing him down to sit next to her.

Obi-Wan hesitated, but the events of the past day had been too miserable to bury inside himself. With short, clipped sentences he told them of his fight with Bruck, the embarrassing presentation of a new lightsaber, and, speaking more softly, the destruction of his chamber.

"Everything?" Reeft exclaimed. "Your droids, your drawings and stuff?"

"Gone," Obi-Wan said grimly.

Bant's face was white as she whispered, "Your mother's sculpture?"

Obi-Wan just looked away.

They were silent. None of them had any memento of their birth homes, and consequently understood completely what the sculpture had meant. There was nothing to say.

Suddenly, Garen's hand clenched into a fist. "So, what are we going to do about him?"

"Who?" asked Reeft.

"Bruck Chun. Who else would do this to Obi-Wan?"

"If it was him, he's gone too far." Bant's normally gentle voice was cold.

Obi-Wan shook his head. "Yes, but we don't know it was Bruck. I can't accuse him of something like this without proof."

Garen's face was hard as he repeated, "Who else could it have been?"

In his heart, Obi-Wan agreed. It must have been Bruck. But he was also thinking of Qui-Gon's actions on the transport to Bandomeer: his quiet diplomacy, his equity to all the parties involved, even those who Obi-Wan felt to be undeserving of it. He looked up at his friends and said what he thought Qui-Gon would say.

"We must be patient. We need proof."

His three friends stared at him, open admiration dawning on their faces.

"That's really. . .Knight-like of you," Reeft said.

Obi-Wan smiled as the compliment lightened his spirit. "Maybe I'm just a marvelous actor."

They laughed, but grew sober again as Bant asked, "How will you find proof?"

"I don't know. I'll think of something." Obi-wan glanced around, noticing that they were the only ones left in the room. "Come on. You're all going to be late."

They stood, and then paused briefly while Reeft popped a last bite of pastry into his mouth. Obi-Wan's back was toward the door when he saw Bant's eyes widen almost imperceptibly. He whirled, catching only the barest glimpse of a shining projectile, and then an eruption of primal fear seized him, and he flung himself to one side, feeling a stinging pain lance across his scalp. He stumbled, taking several steps to regain his balance, and looked up to see his friends, rigid with shock, staring at a vibro-shiv embedded in the wall, quivering from impact.

* * *

In his flat Trikan bed, Qui-Gon was hurled into wakefulness and leaped from the platform to land in a half-crouch. From its resting place atop his neatly folded clothing, his lightsaber flew into his outstretched hand with a loud slap. But in the heartbeat that it took his thumb to ignite the weapon, full awareness of his surroundings impressed itself upon him, and he straightened. For a long moment he stood frozen in the humid darkness, heart thudding, the moonlight gleaming dully off sweat-sheened muscles.

What had wakened him?

His mind quickly scanned over its latest impressions: Molu guiding him to this guest house and wishing him a cheerful "good sleeping!", his arms struggling to open a stubbornly stuck window, his mind struggling even more to empty itself of the broken circle and rest. A long period of meditation, a descent into sleep, and then. . .a blast of raw emotion. Now it had faded as quickly as it had come, leaving only a vague residue.

Fear, he realized. It was someone else's fear.

In the darkness, his lips formed a question.

"Obi-Wan?"

* * *

The shiv quivered, and the moment seemed to stretch alarmingly, until it broke into furious action. With an inarticulate grunt, Garen raced out of the room, Reeft only two steps behind. Bant grabbed Obi-Wan's arm to prevent his joining the pursuit, shouting, "No! You're bleeding!" Obi-Wan put his hand to his head and brought it away again coated red. Bant shoved him down and stood over him, parting the blood-soaked hair with her hands to seek the wound.

Obi-wan stared at the shiv in the wall. The sick fear had faded almost as quickly as it appeared. He reached out, trying to search the Force, but he felt nothing. No threat, no danger.

"I don't think it's really bad," Bant said, sighing. "It's just bleeding a lot. We need a medic to look right away."

"No!" Obi-Wan seized her wrist. "No, I'm all right." He pressed his other hand to the cut, trying to stem the flow. "See. It's already stopping."

"Are you sure?" she asked doubtfully. At his nod, she continued, "Well, I'll go find one of the Masters."

"No." Obi-Wan stopped her again. "There's no need."

"No need!" Bant's mouth dropped open. "Obi-Wan, someone just tried to plant a shiv in your skull!"

Just then, Garen and Reeft returned, breathing hard.

"We couldn't. . .catch him. Too. . .fast," Reeft panted.

"All we saw was the edge of someone's cloak, when he went around the corner," Garen said after catching his breath. "When we got there, the hall was totally empty."

"No telling where he went," Reeft added.

"A cloak? A Jedi cloak?" Obi-Wan asked.

"No, it was blue."

"Black."

The two boys looked at each other and then back at Obi-Wan.

Garen shrugged regretfully. "I thought it was blue, but it all happened really fast."

Reeft was staring at Obi-Wan's blood-matted hair. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. It's not bad."

"It looks bad."

Bant was simmering like a controlled explosion. "This is insane! We've got to tell the Masters!"

Garen and Reeft transferred their stares to her.

"Well, yes, of course," Garen said.

"Not 'of course'! Obi-Wan says no."

"Why?" Garen turned. "This is pretty serious."

"Someone tried to kill you." Reeft said.

Obi-Wan slowly shook his head. "I don't think so. Who would want to kill me? Besides, I would have felt an intention to kill, in the Force."

The others radiated skepticism, although they were too polite to voice it. They were all very young students of the Force, and they knew their control was capricious. None of them could claim mastery of it.

Ignoring their doubtful expressions, Obi-Wan continued, "Maybe. . .someone. . .was trying to scare me, and came a little closer than he meant to."

"Scare you!" Bant exclaimed. "I saw it coming. It was aimed right at your head. And who's 'someone'? Not even Bruck would do this."

"I don't know."

Garen put his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder. "Look. We've got to tell the Masters. Even if this _was_ some kind of . . .prank."

"No." Obi-Wan's voice was firm. "They've got the problems of the whole galaxy. They don't need to be bothered with this little thing."

"Little! Little. . ." Bant sputtered.

"It's not little, Obi-Wan," said Reeft. "This was an attack on a Jedi, in the Temple!"

"I don't think it was an attack." Obi-Wan walked to the knife and pried it out of the wall. He faced his friends. "Please, don't tell anyone about this. I'm all right, and it's better. . .if no one knows. Really."

He locked eyes with them, and slowly, reluctantly, they agreed not to speak of it, Bant last of all.

"I've got to get cleaned up." Obi-Wan grinned wryly. "It's a good thing I don't have a class. I'd have a hard time explaining my tardiness."

Unwilling, but unable to find a way to counter Obi-Wan's determinedly casual attitude, the three others gathered their things and departed for their morning classes. Obi-Wan stood alone in the center of the room, staring down at the shiv in his hand. Were his friends right? Should the Masters be told? But quickly the fear in his heart asserted itself. Surely an apprentice to Qui-Gon Jinn should not be so weak and afraid as to go running to the Masters at every inexplicable event? And if he did go, the whole story of his fight yesterday with Bruck would surely come to light.

No, it was better to wait. Didn't Qui-Gon, and every other Master for that matter, always counsel patience? He would wait, and see what would happen, if anything did, and then act on the further information.

He gripped the shiv tightly.

Wait. Maybe look around a little. And stay very alert.


	6. Chapter 6

**Joint Strength Part Six**

Qui-Gon slipped through the thick Trikan darkness. Outside the king's Residence, the torches had been extinguished, but he sensed movement inside, and, as he drew nearer, the faint, jovial sounds of a party in its final stages. Without pausing to knock, he pushed open the small side entrance, and strode quickly into the Main Court.

Here muted light reflected off stone and wood. In a far corner, Qui-Gon saw several figures hunched over a game table, shouting encouragement to a tall, thin courtier who was spinning a multicolored diamond-shaped die on one end. As Qui-Gon approached, it whirled to a stop and tumbled on its side, revealing a black face which caused good-natured groans from the small group. A muscular arm reached up and patted the thin man sympathetically on the back of his head; Qui-Gon recognized it as the king's. As he stepped into the brighter light around the table, Orthu Bela glanced up, and then stood, a genial smile lighting his face.

"Master Jedi!" he called, his voice an understated version of its usual bellow. "I didn't realize you were a late-night sort of person!"

"It's not by choice, your majesty," Qui-Gon said. "I have an urgent need to contact Coruscant. May I use your transceiver?"

Orthu Bela's smile slid off his face, replaced by a stricken frown.

"No one can use the holonet tonight." He gestured upward, and his voice softened reverently. "The moon waxes. The gods are walking."

The Trikans at the table behind him dipped their fingers into their cups and goblets, and flicked droplets of liquid toward the ceiling.

Qui-Gon frowned. "I'm sorry. I don't understand."

"There is no need for apology. It is our way, not yours. But I will tell you that, when the gods walk, nothing may share the sky with them. No ships, no lights, no communication beams. The gods walk in purity."

"For how long?"

"Until the moon begins to wane. Tomorrow night."

Qui-Gon tried to keep frustration from coloring his tone. "Forgive me, your highness, but since I am not Trikan, perhaps I. . ." "No." Orthu Bela's voice was suffused with regret. "No. All who walk below our sky are beneath the gods' tread. Even the Jedi."

A silence wrapped itself about them, as Qui-Gon's mind searched desperately for a way out from beneath the tread of the gods. But none presented itself. He knew as well as anyone the absolute firmness of Trikan taboo. No communication. And his ship would not return until the next evening.

The king's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I'm truly sorry. Can we help?"

Qui-Gon slowly shook his head. "No. No, I think not, though I'm grateful for your concern."

Orthu Bela nodded, and gripped Qui-Gon's shoulder warmly. "You will tell me at once if there is something we can do."

"Yes, at once. Thank you."

The king stepped over to a table overflowing with platters of fruit and bottles of varying sizes. He lifted one of these and raised a questioning eyebrow, but Qui-Gon shook his head, declining. Wishing the king "good sleeping", he left the Court. His face was calm, his stride smooth, but one clenched fist showed the agitation of his spirit. First, the broken circle, he thought, and then that blast of fear. Had it really been Obi-Wan he had sensed? He could think of no other being whose emotions he would be able to detect so strongly, and yet, he had only known the boy for a few short weeks. It was true that those weeks had been fraught with experiences destined to bind them together, but, still,. . .

He straightened his shoulders. No matter whose fear it had been, there was nothing he could do about it right now. He must be patient. He must wait.

Tipping his head to study the glowing moon, Qui-Gon Jinn sighed, a brief exhalation of frustration and concern heard only by the gods under whose sky he walked.

* * *

"How close?" The man called Morran leaned forward, his magnetic eyes locking Bruck Chun's gaze to his face.

"Close." Bruck handed the black cloak he had been wearing back to its owner.

"I need a more specific answer." Morran's voice was edged with menace as he flung the cloak around his shoulders and raised the hood. "Close enough to frighten him?"

Bruck wrenched his eyes away, looking at his hand, his feet, the opposite wall. . .

"Answer me, Bruck. How close?"

"Too close, all right? I struck him with it!"

The silence following this outburst grew long and thick. Finally, Bruck dragged his eyes upward to find Morran staring at him speculatively.

"You killed him?"

"No!" Bruck cried, horror evident in his tone. "No, of course not!"

"There is no 'of course', my young friend. Why did you strike him if not to kill him?"

"I didn't mean to hit him with it! He moved, he jumped right in its path. . ."

"You are free to tell yourself that, if it makes you feel more comfortable. But doesn't it seem strange that a highly-trained Jedi pupil such as yourself would make such a mistake?"

Bruck bowed his head, his face showing the dark confusion these words stirred in his mind. Beneath the deep hood of his cloak, Morran smiled slightly, a smirk which quickly disappeared as the boy looked up again.

"I wasn't trying to kill him," he said, a bit desperately.

Morran shrugged, "As you wish. Tell me, was he wearing a new lightsaber?"

Bruck receded inward, mentally focusing, remembering. . . "Yes. I saw it flash when he jumped. Why?"

"No matter. In any case, it's fortunate that you didn't succeed in killing him. By striking him, you've assured that he will make a report to the Council."

"I don't see how that does me any good."

"There is a great deal that you don't see. You must trust me. I have insight into the mind of Qui-Gon Jinn. He will never choose as Padawan one who goes running to the Council, which leaves the way clear for him to choose you."

Bruck nodded. His intense desire to believe showed clearly in his taut jaw.

Morran echoed the nod, his eyes' mocking glint hidden in the hood's shadow. "Yes. Trust me, Bruck. I know exactly what I'm doing."

* * *

Bant knelt.

Although synonymous with meditation, the familiar posture brought no accompanying peace. Her mind refused to focus on anything except the confused image of a shining knife aimed at Obi-Wan's head. Almost wincing, she strove to put the image away, but it refused to be dismissed, and at last she surrendered to it.

Someone was trying to kill her friend. No matter what Obi-Wan said, she was absolutely convinced that he was in grave danger. Could she allow him to blithely ignore a threat of this magnitude?

She opened her eyes, just enough to study the other students in the class. They all seemed deeply buried in meditation, including Reeft, who knelt to her right. His calm face gave no hint that he was struggling with similar thoughts, and yet she thought he must be. How could he or Garen not be equally as concerned as she?

The solution, the _obvious_ answer, was to find a Master immediately and tell him or her the entire story. But. . .Obi-Wan had made them promise, and Bant was Calamarian. To her people, loyalty was the highest virtue, above truth, above honor, above common sense.

She almost snorted in frustration, stopping herself just in time. All right, then, so she couldn't accept the obvious answer. What else could be done? Her promise to Obi-Wan had been only to keep silent, not to keep out of it. If he wasn't going to take this threat seriously, she would.

Her eyes slid sideways, to covertly study another member of her class. Bruck Chun was silhouetted against the window at the far wall of the room. His face, too, was a picture of serenity, but did she not detect a flicker of disquiet in him? Perhaps, just maybe, he was involved in all this. He might not have thrown that knife, but maybe he knew who had.

Yes, she thought. He might be completely innocent, but if he's not. . .I'll find out what he knows.

She watched him surreptitiously, accomplishing no meditation at all during the long class period. Bruck did not move at all, but, perhaps because of her single-minded focus on him alone, Bant could feel his swirling agitation. Her conviction in her chosen course of action solidified into certainty.

When the class ended, and the students were dismissed, Bruck slipped quickly out of the room, speaking with no one. With a brief, furtive glance behind, he left the main hall outside the meditation room and turned down a much smaller secondary corridor.

Bant followed him.

* * *

When a misty dawn had washed the moon from the sky, Qui-Gon stepped out of his small guesthouse just as Molu emerged from the direction of the Residence. The general gave him a brief wrists-crossed salute, and then, as he drew closer, called, "A fair morning, friend Jedi! Did you have good sleeping?"

Qui-Gon hesitated. "I've had better."

Quick concern creased Molu's brow. "Insects? A snake in your bed?"

"No. Thank the Force." Faint amusement colored Qui-Gon's voice.

"As you say." Molu waited for a moment, and then, when it became clear that Qui-Gon did not wish to share the cause of his poor sleeping, he said, "Come. Let's investigate Teek's home. I'm not looking forward to what we may find there."

They were silent as they walked, Molu blanketed with edginess at the thought of the task before them, and Qui-Gon searching still for a gap in the wall of taboo that prevented him from contacting Obi-Wan. The Soldier's Circle was eerily quiet when they entered it. Molu grinned at Qui-Gon's unspoken question.

"I sent them all on river-maneuvers. More practice for them; peace and privacy for us."

Qui-Gon smiled. "You are a model of efficiency, General."

"I would not be a general otherwise, right?"

They paused in front of Teek's door, still half-open from Molu's aborted attempt to enter the day before. Eyes closed briefly, Qui-Gon searched the Force, but sensed no danger. He glanced over at Molu, who was waiting, brows raised. Qui-Gon shook his head. "All seems well. Shall we try it?"

Moving carefully, they entered the little house, pausing for a moment to let their eyes adjust to the dim light. The single round room was wretchedly untidy, piles of fruit rinds and bread crusts sharing the floor with discarded uniforms and crumpled towels. The bed was a whirlpool of dingy linen, and, as Qui-Gon watched, a gleaming black beetle scuttled across the creased pillow. A faintly musty smell pervaded the air, causing Molu to mutter, "He obviously didn't listen to my last speech about cleanliness." His voice suddenly rasped with regret and sorrow. "Or any of my speeches about anything, apparently."

Qui-Gon looked up from his examination of the bedside table. "Yesterday you told me that I bore no blame, that Teek had made his own choice. I think that same wisdom could be applied to yourself, General."

Molu smiled tightly. "But it's easier to dispense my wise sayings to others. Much harder to sink them in my own heart."

"How well I know that." Qui-Gon bent to scan the lower shelves of the table, which were covered with what appeared to be some sort of data solid. Gingerly, he lifted one, studying its iridescent depths. "Molu," he said, turning. "What is. . ."

He stopped abruptly when he saw the general's hand lift, commanding silence. With excruciating slowness, Molu lowered himself to his hands and knees, and then slid forward, his eyes fastened on a dark recess behind three storage baskets. He stretched one hand out to the side, fumbling slightly until he grasped a discarded shirt, and drew it slowly in toward his chest. Qui-Gon watched, utterly still.

Suddenly, with shocking speed, Molu sprang forward, his body stretching prone as he lunged into the dark corner, flinging the shirt. There was a grating shriek, and then Molu pulled the shirt out into the center of the floor. Something was struggling mightily underneath, emitting squawks of profound distress.

"Well," Molu said, breathing hard. "I think we have found what the boy was protecting."

Qui-Gon crouched beside him. "What is it?"

"Watch." Carefully, Molu lifted the shirt with one hand, making a soft clicking noise with his teeth. The squawks abruptly ceased. A small creature crawled out from beneath the confining cloth and sat on its haunches, blinking luminous green eyes at them.

Its body was sinuous and slightly elongated, covered with sleek black fur. The legs were short and muscular, ending in five-toed feet equipped with obvious claws. After a moment's study, Qui-Gon could see a subtle pattern of brown spots along the spine and shoulders. Two rounded ears were pricked alertly in their direction, and the creature's slim snout was raised, obviously drinking in their scent.

It opened its mouth, and said, "Watch."

Qui-Gon blinked. The creature's voice was recognizably the same as Molu's.

"What is it?" he asked again, looking over at Molu.

"What is it?" The creature tipped its head to one side, eyeing them quizzically. This time its voice was Qui-Gon's.

Molu grinned. "A _sinna_. They are marvelous mimics, as you see."

"Was this a . . . pet?"

Molu's smile faded. "I think it must have been. But the only way to keep a _sinna_ in captivity is to capture it at birth. I fear greatly that Teek may have killed this one's mother to do so."

Qui-Gon felt distaste rise in his throat. "I see."

Molu glanced at him, nodding. "Yes. It is a great evil, forbidden long ago, by Orthu Bela's grandfather. It seems that Teek had lost his respect for all of our laws."

The little creature copied Molu's nod. "Orthu Bela's grandfather," it said gravely.

Qui-Gon turned his attention back to it. "Does it understand language? Or just mimic it?"

"Just mimic, we think, but no one is completely sure. The _sinna_ usually run free, deep in the forest. Not much study of them has been done."

"So Teek planted the _wik_ to prevent anyone from discovering it."

"Yes. In the confusion of someone being struck, he must have thought it would surely escape."

"It didn't run, though. It hid."

Molu reached out a hand, stroking the creature's shoulder. "Yes. It obviously has no idea how to live on its own. The foolish boy should have realized that. In the forest, it would be caught by a predator in no time."

Qui-Gon paused. "Maybe he did realize it," he said slowly. "Maybe he was counting on it if anything happened to him."

"What do you mean?" Now the _sinna_ had crawled up Molu's arm and perched on his shoulder. It sat fastidiously grooming its whiskers.

"It mimics perfectly. How far back does it remember?"

Molu stared at him. "I have no idea. But even if you're thinking what I suspect you're thinking. . ." He shook his head. "How would you ever discover what it remembers?"

Qui-Gon didn't answer. Settling into a kneeling meditation posture, he closed his eyes, sinking into the Force, drawing it toward him. He perceived clearly the almost overwhelming life that surrounded him, and only after much concentration was he able to isolate the three of them in the room: himself, Molu and the little _sinna_. Then, he let awareness of his own body and the general fade, and focused solely on the creature.

Its mind was afire with life, sparking rapidly with curiosity, vague hunger, and contentment, now that it was comfortably ensconced on Molu's shoulder. Qui-Gon approached it warily, through the Force, and projected an impression of trust with all his strength.

Trust me. Trust me. I'll not harm you. You're safe. You'll be cared for. Trust me.

He felt the creature's mind focus on him with startling intensity, but the impressions flowing through it were too strange and too fleeting for him to grasp. He caught a brief, oddly distorted vision of himself and Molu, but, though he struggled with all his skill, he could discern nothing more that was understandable.

He opened his eyes to find Molu and the _sinna_ studying him with identical interested gazes. The _sinna'a_ glowing eyes suddenly flared with something akin to recognition, and, with a low squawk, it leaped off Molu's shoulder and folded itself into a waiting posture in front of Qui-Gon, looking up at him expectantly.

Qui-Gon threw a glance at Molu, who shrugged. "Perhaps it needs some sort of . . .cue?"

Qui-Gon sat back, crossed his arms, and said, "Teek."

The creature cocked it head, and said nothing.

Qui-Gon ignored Molu's skeptical expression, and tried again. "Oracle."

The creature lifted one foot and began to nibble a claw.

Molu rubbed his face, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile. Qui-Gon set his jaw, and said, "Qui-Gon Jinn."

Dropping its foot, the _sinna_ widened its eyes and said, "Qui-Gon Jinn must die on Triki."

The voice was strong, arrogant, cold. It was Xanatos.


	7. Chapter 7

**Joint Strength Part Seven**

Seated on the dingy floor of Teek's house, two men and a sleek creature regarded one another solemnly. The long-remembered voice echoed hollowly in Qui-Gon's heart. He turned to Molu, whose face reflected the gravity Qui-Gon himself was feeling.

"Your old enemy?" Molu asked, jerking his chin at the _sinna_, who responded with a low chortle.

Qui-Gon sighed. "Yes. His name is Xanatos. He was . . .an apprentice of mine, who turned to evil." He flashed a sudden, wry smile. "An interesting parallel between us, General. Lost protégés."

"It seems that your lost protégé bears a grudge."

"He does indeed. He's tried to kill me twice in the past month."

"Twice? Teek's attack and also. . .?"

"My last mission took me to a planet called Bandomeer. Xanatos arranged the circumstances so that he could rid himself of me and my apprentice, Obi-Wan. . ."

"Obi-Wan Kenobi." The _sinna_ scrambled up Molu's arm, and perched on his shoulder, blinking rapidly.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi. Obi-Wan Kenobi." The voice was Xanatos' again, though the repetition was surely the product of the _sinna's_ quicksilver mind.

A cold foreboding swirled through Qui-Gon's spirit. Why would Xanatos have been discussing his new apprentice with Teek?

He focused on the little creature, catching its luminous gaze with his own. "Obi-Wan Kenobi?" he prompted.

"Obi-Wan Kenobi is young and insecure, unsure of his Master's acceptance."

The surge of dismay that flooded him took a long moment to subdue. He knew that those words were at least partially true, and the truth is a powerful weapon in a skillful enemy's hands. On Bandomeer, Xanatos had preyed on Obi-Wan's youth and inexperience. Was he repeating that tactic somehow? How? Obi-Wan wasn't here; he was on Coruscant. With a sickening lurch, he recalled the overwhelming fear that had wakened him in the night. What was happening back there?

He stretched his hand out toward the _sinna_. "Coruscant?' he asked.

"Coruscant." The hard voice issued eerily from the creature's toothy mouth. "We've a new plan. _Don't_ kill him here, keep him here. Death will visit Coruscant is his absence."

"What?" Molu leaned forward. "That sounds very bad."

"Death?" Qui-Gon prompted, his voice urgent.

"Death will visit Coruscant," the _sinna_ repeated obligingly.

"What does it mean?" Molu's hand reached up to stroke the animal's snout. It ran its jaw along the man's fingers, trilling with contentment. Qui-Gon shook his head, concentrating fiercely, searching his mind for another cue to encourage the creature's helpful tongue. "Vengeance?"

The _sinna_ bobbed its head twice, and began snuffling in Molu's hair. "Kill?" He winced slightly at the word's bald harshness.

The _sinna_ stared at him, and then stretched its jaw in a wide yawn. Qui-Gon was opening his mouth to try again when the creature finished its yawn and said, "Kill them all."

It paused, grooming one ear with a slim paw, and then continued. "I will use his apprentice to kill them all."

* * *

Bant had never tried to follow anyone before, not where the stakes were this high.

As she pressed herself as flat as possible in a tiny niche behind a potted tree, she reflected grimly that, whatever the virtues of stealth training, she would have preferred to learn it from a Master in a classroom, instead of acquiring practice in the field, so to speak.

Although she was inexperienced, her natural tendency toward discretion had so far kept her safe from Bruck's detection. When he had left the meditation room, he had gone, by a very roundabout route, to one of the library rooms, where he had stayed for some time. She had crept gradually closer, using the various workstations and study circles for cover, until she had been able to gain a vantage point which clearly showed his frustrated expression. Despite his muttering and cajoling and forceful tapping, the computer had apparently not divulged the information he sought. With a strangled exclamation that had sounded to Bant suspiciously like a nasty oath, he had flung himself away from it. As soon as he strode out the door, Bant had risked taking the moment necessary to call up on the computer the last node he had requested.

Now, with the plant's feathery branches trailing uncomfortably over her head and down her back, she wondered about that node. Why would Bruck Chun be interested in the biographies of Jedi who had left the order? He certainly didn't seem like the sort to have a keen interest in history for its own sake. So what was he looking for?

And when, she thought wearily, was he _ever_ going to come out of his room?

From the library he had come here, to his chamber in the Students' Quarters, and here he had stayed. At first Bant had been pleased to have a little time to secrete herself into a good hiding place, but, as the minutes came and went, each one longer than the previous, she had become stiff, and irritable, and very bored.

She began to amuse herself by making the treefronds wave with her breath. Then she tried imagining all the ways that a Knight might occupy herself while on a mission that required surveillance. Perhaps a Knight would weave the tree's branches into a beautiful pattern with the Force, or maybe use the extra time to impart great wisdom to her eager Padawan. . .

The swish of an opening door brought Bant back to the present with a thud. She forced herself into complete immobility as she watched Bruck stalk down the hall in the opposite direction of her concealing plant. She waited until he turned the corner at the far end, and then scrambled out, brushing a frond impatiently out of her tunic's collar, and sprinted after him.

Now the chase became difficult, for Bruck strode straight through the busiest parts of the Temple, past the exercise rooms and the common areas, and the huge indoor garden. Everywhere, students and Masters and others filled Bant's line of vision, and she struggled valiantly to keep Bruck in sight. He was moving quickly, so fast that she almost lost him. At the far end of the garden, he veered suddenly into a side corridor. Only a gap in the large group of younger students passing in front of her allowed Bant to see him turn.

Jostling through the students with a mumbled apology, Bant jogged over to the corner. Cautiously, she tipped her head around it, just enough to see a lift door about halfway down the hall slide silently closed. Clenching one fist in frustration, she walked up to the door and gazed at it sourly, shaking her head. She wasn't sure what part of the Temple this particular lift serviced.

Behind her, a dark figure detached itself from the shadow of a small alcove. A strong hand reached out and gripped her shoulder.

"Looking for someone?" the hand's owner murmured smoothly.

With admirable control, Bant turned to face the speaker. Her face was expressionless as her eyes studied him: a tall being swathed in a dark robe, his face hidden in a deep hood.

"Not anymore," she answered truthfully, shifting her shoulder from under the man's grip.

She backed away, two steps, eyes still intent. "If you will excuse me, sir, I have other duties."

The hood nodded politely, and she strode off without a backward glance.

The robed man entered the lift. As its doors closed, he whispered, "Very interesting. . ."

* * *

Obi-Wan swung his new lightsaber, snapping it to a stop in a fully upright position and then lunging and parrying with an invisible adversary. The saber was only minutely different from his old one, though he felt the difference keenly, having to concentrate all the harder on the drill he was performing. The polished steel walls of the exercise room reflected his movements, but he steadfastly avoided watching himself, one of the greatest temptations to failure, and focused instead on the saber's glow, until it seemed as if some other force were swinging it, rather than his own arms. The drill required progressively faster movements, until at last, theoretically, the blade became a blur of light. He concentrated on the saber's dance, working toward that goal, when his foot slipped fractionally, and he lost control. The lightsaber blade swung awkwardly sideways, and he overcompensated just enough to bring it back almost into his own face. He stopped the motion, barely, and then stood quietly, breathing a bit harder than he should have been.

He moved his shoulders irritably. I performed this flawlessly three weeks ago, he thought. What's the matter with me today?

But then he smiled. He knew precisely what was the matter. He felt as if he were merely waiting for the next disaster to strike: a lightsource falling from the ceiling, perhaps? a message from Qui-Gon saying he was staying on Triki for six more weeks? slow-acting poison in his muja juice at dinner?

His smile stretched into a grin at his mind's melodramatic suggestions, but the grin faded quickly.

I'm not doing myself any good here, he thought. I've been practicing since breakfast and not improving. Maybe I should just track down Bruck, confront him directly about the knife and my broken stuff, and see what he says. See what the Force tells me about him.

He thought for a moment, head down, but no better idea came to him, so, with an inward sigh, he deactivated his lightsaber, attached it to his belt, and walked into the hall.

He angled toward the Students' Quarters, growing more determined with each step to put an end to this feud with Bruck immediately. But, suddenly, as he skirted the indoor garden, a darkness edged past his consciousness. He froze, remembering in a rush that he had felt this same dark ripple yesterday, before the fight with Bruck had driven it completely from his thoughts. He emptied his mind, focusing only on the shadowy impression, capturing it, until he was certain it was real, and that it was leading downward. Moving slowly, he followed the darkness' vague pull.

Since the feeling seemed to be emanating from below, he found a secondary lift tube, and took it down as far as it would go. He stepped out into a dimly lit corridor. Like every part of the Temple, it was spacious and scrupulously clean, but Obi-Wan saw at once that he was in the very roots of the building, amongst the rarely-visited storage rooms, mechanical repair stations and power plants that supported life on the floors above.

The dark ripple had grown to a stream. Having latched onto it securely, he could sense it now without having to concentrate. Moving more quickly, he slipped down the hall, a frown creasing his brow, hand on lightsaber, every sense alert.

He still didn't hear the attack coming.

The hiss of an activated lightsaber gave him a split-second warning. He whirled, drawing his own weapon with commendable speed. But this wasn't his old familiar lightsaber, and the activator button was further up the handle. His thumb slid frantically, searching for it, even as he leaped backward to avoid a sweeping blow. His opponent's blade sliced down a hairs-breadth away from his own out-thrust saber, coming so close to his fingers that the skin was burned. With a shout, he dropped his weapon. There was no time to retrieve it ; his attacker struck again. Obi-Wan flung his body into a forward flip, clearing the deadly blade. Landing lightly, he continued to flip, backwards three times, giving him enough space to gain a quick glance at his enemy. He saw only a flowing dark robe and a featureless face.

Mask? a small dispassionate part of his mind wondered. The rest of it was clouded with fear, as he faced, unarmed, a skilled lightsaber-wielding opponent who seemed intent on causing him great bodily harm. Deadly anger was blazing from the dark figure like an explosion.

"What are you doing down here?" the attacker hissed. He lunged forward again, slamming his blade down. Obi-Wan ducked, and kicked out sideways at the dark one's midsection, feeling a satisfying impact. Despite his cushioning robe, Obi-Wan's opponent grunted in pain, and bent reflexively. Moving without thought, directed by the Force, Obi-Wan rammed his elbow back with all his strength, into the attacker's masked face. He stumbled backward and almost fell, and Obi-Wan ran.

Fleeing around a corner, he knew that he had only moments before his enemy recovered. He scanned the featureless doors surrounding him, and chose one at random, three doors down. As it slid closed behind him, he found himself in a barely-lit storage room, filled with barrel-shaped containers that hummed quietly. Cooling units, he realized. Food storage, probably.

Without seeing it, he sensed that his enemy was moving again. He slipped silently into a shadowy space behind the first row of containers. His fear was choking him, and he knew it must be flaring out like a beacon. If his adversary was the least bit Force-sensitive, the fear would guide him directly to Obi-Wan. He tried to calm himself, to let the dimness around him fill his mind, so that this enemy would sense nothing but a gray haze. The silence in the room was so total that it seemed thick and viscous. Obi-Wan stilled his breathing, his pounding heart, his thoughts. . .

And then stumbled backward a full meter as the silent air was shattered by the buzzing of his comlink.

* * *

Molu shook his head gravely, his eyes disturbed. "If this little creature is repeating what it has truly heard, I fear that this plot runs much deeper than merely the corruption of my one soldier.

Only silence greeted his comment. Molu glanced over at Qui-Gon, and then leaned sharply forward, startled by the blank emptiness on the Jedi's face.

"Master Jedi? Master Jedi!"

Qui-Gon turned to him, slowly, but his eyes did not focus on the general's face. He seemed to be watching something far removed from the dim walls around them.

"Friend?" Molu's reached out and tapped Qui-Gon's shoulder. "What is it?"

Between one heartbeat and the next, Qui-Gon's focus returned to his surroundings, but his eyes were puzzled.

"What is it?" Molu repeated, his voice tinged with an uncertainty that was almost fear.

"I'm not sure." Qui-Gon rubbed one hand along his jaw, rather wearily. "Fear, again, maybe. But it disappeared, into. . .grayness." With a graceful, decisive movement, he stood. "I must return to Coruscant at once. There has to be a way."

Molu got to his feet, as well, his face filled with concern. "There is no way, my friend. The taboo. . ."

"The taboo may be the death of my apprentice. Do the gods require such a sacrifice?"

"No, no." Molu scooped up the _sinna_ and jogged a few steps to catch Qui-Gon's arm as he strode out the door. "But they are Trikan gods, with their eyes on Triki. Coruscant and, forgive me, your apprentice, mean little to them."

Qui-Gon whirled to face him, his eyes darkened with urgency. "At the very least, I can approach the Oracle and request to send a message."

Molu nodded, but his expression was doubtful. "You can do that, yes."

Qui-Gon nodded once, sharply, and pulled his arm from Molu's grasp. The two men walked out the door , into the brilliant light of the Circle, but, suddenly, as they crossed the threshold, a jarring, high-pitched squeal filled the air, assaulting them from all sides. Qui-Gon reached automatically for his lightsaber, looking at once to Molu for explanation.

The general's face was rigid with shock for a fraction of a second, before his soldier's training snapped him to attention, demanding that he master the situation at hand. Locking eyes with Qui-Gon, he shouted rapidly over the horrific noise.

"It's a spider-mine. A tiny explosive set to arm and detonate when a specific boundary is crossed. The squeal means we have less than a minute before it blows."

"Where is it?"

"I don't know!"

But then, the same idea seized both of them, and they focused on the lithe creature clutched in Molu's hand.

With his free hand, Molu combed roughly over the _sinna's_ silky coat. In just a few seconds he shouted, "Here!"

He seized Qui-Gon's wrist and brought his hand down onto the _sinna's_ neck, behind the left ear. Qui-Gon felt the tiny, vibrating bulge at once. Molu transferred the creature to his left arm, drawing a flashing silver knife out of his belt with his right hand. "I'll have to cut it out and disarm. . ."

Before he could make another movement, the _sinna_ gave a tiny panicked yelp, and twisted out of his grip, leaving two identical sets of bleeding claw marks on his arm. It scurried away, circling frantically, trying to escape the punishing squeal. Molu dived at it, but it swerved to one side, staring at them with puzzled, frightened eyes . It backed away and then swarmed up a nearby tree, squawking pitifully.

"How long?" Qui-Gon shouted.

"Ten seconds, maybe." Molu's voice was grim.

The _sinna_ was climbing higher, its claws scrabbling desperately at the tree's hard bark. Molu ran to the base of the tree, clicking his teeth in a futile effort to call the little mammal down.

Six seconds.

Qui-Gon stretched out his arm, drawing the Force and directing it after the _sinna_. He could sense the creature's palpable fear with no effort.

Four.

The _sinna_ had found a crook in the tree and huddled into a ball, twisting its head awkwardly and snapping its jaw, vainly trying to bite away the painful noise.

Three.

Molu turned back to Qui-Gon, resignation shadowing his eyes.

Two.

The Force surged, enveloping the struggling animal. Qui-Gon's eyes drifted closed. In the Force, he could sense the _sinna's_ little body, curled in pain. He located the alien metal object implanted behind the left ear.

One.

He sensed its simple composition, found the arming switch, nudged it. . .

Zero.


	8. Chapter 8

**Joint Strength Part Eight**

Silence.

The abrupt cessation of the spider-mine's piercing squeal created a momentary vacuum, quickly filled with an inrushing cacophony of bird and insect song. From his position at the tree's base, Molu slowly straightened, flexing shoulders that had unconsciously hunched against the coming explosion. An awed light glimmered around the edges of his impassive expression as he watched Qui-Gon lower his hand and open his eyes.

"The gods walk with you, my friend," Molu said, jerking his chin upward in the _sinna's_ direction. "The explosion would have destroyed everything in a one-hundred-meter radius."

Qui-Gon raised his eyebrows. "There was indeed a venomous snake in Teek's house."

"So it seems." Molu's face darkened. "The trigger must have been planted in the door frame. If the _sinna_ ever left the house. . ." He thrust his hands upward in an explosive gesture.

Qui-Gon nodded. "I find it difficult to believe that Teek would have planted such a device in his own pet. I sense the cold-blooded efficiency of a darker mind."

"Your enemy?"

"Perhaps." Qui-Gon rubbed his jaw, eyes intent on a faraway thought. "It hardly matters now, since we've avoided the trap. The fact remains that, whatever his original plans here, he's changed them to make my whole visit an elaborate decoy of some sort, and the true danger lies in Coruscant. I must go there. Now."

"There is no way to go."

"I will speak to the Oracle."

"Even if it grants you leave, your ship will not return till dusk, and by then the taboo will be lifted. Why not wait?" But even as he said the words, Molu shook his head, rejecting them. "No. No, I understand your urgency. This. . .fear. . . you felt, back in the house. You think it comes from your apprentice."

"Yes."

The two men stood facing each other, as the jungle sang around them. The _sinna_, freed from the torment of the spider-mine, eased down the tree's trunk in a loose spiral, chattering cheerfully. It leaped the short space to the general's shoulder and curled easily around his neck, hindquarters trailing off one side, front paws off the other. Molu reached up absently to stroke its head, but his face was tight with conflict. Although, like all Trikans, he was completely tied to his homeworld, he well understood that a larger galaxy existed around it. This Jedi possessed integral ties to that larger galaxy, and Molu felt that, through the friendship that had grown between them, he possessed those ties too, however tenuous. Only a week ago, the death of Jedi on faraway Coruscant would have meant little to him, only a moment's unfocused regret for the loss of lives. But now. . .

Could he stand impassively by and watch the evil wrought by his own soldier rip the heart out of this man, who had now twice saved his life?

Qui-Gon sensed a struggle in the general's emotions, but he made no effort to interpret it. His own spirit was wrapped in something very like fear, though he rode above it grimly. Xanatos is wholly given to darkness now, he thought. Whatever light he possessed snuffed out by greed and rage and lust for vengeance. The darkness of the old apprentice threatens to bury the new.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

He would not allow that to happen.

"General," he said, his voice almost as brittle as the silence between them, "You seem doubtful of the Oracle's help, and I am inclined to agree. I must take more drastic measures."

Molu's face grew wary. "Such as what?"

"I know from my study of your world that Trikans rarely leave it, but I also know that the Trikan senator transports herself to and from Coruscant on a government ship. True?"

"Yes. But. . ."

"Where there is one government ship, there may be others. I ask nothing of you but that you direct me to where they might be. And walk away."

Molu did not answer, his eyes drained of warmth.

Qui-Gon stared directly into them. "Surely you break no taboo by providing me this small bit of information. Do the gods not reward the preservation of life?"

Molu's voice was low and flat. "They reward honor more highly."

Qui-Gon nodded and looked away, his mind already searching for other alternatives. He could think of no other persuasion. He would have to find the ships on his own, wasting precious time, time Obi-Wan might not have. . .

"But honor, in this case, seems to me a complicated matter." Molu drew the knife from his belt and studied it, his face suddenly anguished. "Twice you have saved my life. Now the life of one close to you is endangered by the evil work of one who was close to me. Shall I repay your friendship by letting the evil grow and spread?"

"You must do what you think is right," Qui-Gon said slowly.

"The gods demand the taboo. But they also demand honor." Molu looked up, sharply, and gazed at Qui-Gon with eyes that were blinded with sorrow.

"Come, Master Jedi," he said. "I will take you to Coruscant."

* * *

A'ali Cek considered the comlink in her hand. It was silent, as it had been for several long minutes. With a small inward sigh she transferred her gaze to the datapad in her other hand, vaguely hoping that, by ignoring the comlink, she might spur it into action. It remained stubbornly mute.

Since she was alone in the antechamber, she allowed herself a grimace. The Masters had a long list of appointments and discussions on their agenda for this afternoon. The silent comlink represented a break in the smooth efficiency of the Council schedule.

She bathed the little instrument in one final, slightly malevolent, stare, but it still refused to buzz, so she slipped it into its pouch on her belt, and approached a small, engraved door at the rear of the antechamber. It slid noiselessly aside to reveal a circular room, ringed with spacious windows that framed a matchless view of Coruscant's busy skyline. A second ring, this one of twelve variously-shaped chairs, also echoed the chamber's sweeping shape.

For all the grandeur of its view, the room itself was simple, its only ornamentation an intricately patterned floor. The chairs were all gray, with deep red cushions, and the chairs' occupants were all clothed in harmonious shades of cream and brown. Despite the differences in species represented, the room's twelve members were obviously one in purpose, if not always one in mind.

As A'ali entered, they turned to regard her. She smiled slightly and bowed to all of them, though she addressed herself only to a diminutive, elderly woman seated to the right of the engraved door, a woman radiant with an aura of confident power. She was Tel Edrunn, a senior member of the Jedi Council, and Master to A'ali Cek.

"Masters," A'ali said, straightening, "I have contacted everyone that you wished to speak with today, and all have agreed to come this afternoon or tomorrow, with one exception."

Tel Edrunn raised one brow, and several of the other Masters exchanged interested glances. Very rare, indeed, that someone refused a summons to the Council chamber.

"The student Obi-Wan Kenobi has not answered his comlink," A'ali finished.

A small silence curled itself around the chamber, as the Masters considered this. After a moment, Master Yoda said, "Certain are you that he is present in the Temple?"

One of A'ali's shoulders twitched in what might have been an aborted shrug. Face neutral, she said, "I checked, Master. Shuttle records indicate that he arrived yesterday morning, on the same transport as Qui-Gon Jinn, and there is no record of him leaving."

"But he doesn't answer his comlink," Tel Edrunn frowned. "That's strange."

She glanced around the room, and then, sensing consensus, returned her gaze to A'ali. "Route the message to his chamber's datapad, Padawan. And check on it this evening. If he still hasn't retrieved it, perhaps you should seek him in person."

A'ali bowed smoothly. "Yes, Master. I'll send it his way at once."

* * *

The echo of the comlink's buzz was still bouncing off the far wall as Obi-Wan seized it and powered it off with a frantic slap. His pounding heart gave him no time to spare even a thought for who might be calling. He cared only to prevent another nerve-wracking buzz from broadcasting his presence.

Maybe he didn't hear it, Obi-Wan thought. Maybe it just sounded loud to me. . .

Even as Obi-Wan sank further back behind the last row of containers, his Force-augmented senses detected a footfall, and the door to the storage room slid aside with shocking suddenness. For a moment, Obi-Wan saw only a vague silhouette against the relative brightness of the corridor, but as the figure stepped forward, his features became clear, and Obi-Wan felt his jaw clamp around a gasp of surprise.

It was Bruck Chun.

He must have taken off the robe and mask, Obi-Wan thought, his mind circling confusedly. But immediately, he realized that his attacker had been much taller and more powerful than Bruck. And no dark cloud of menace hung in the air as Bruck moved forward a few more steps. Whatever Bruck was doing here, he hadn't been trying to kill Obi-Wan out in the corridor.

He opened his mouth to speak, to challenge Bruck's presence, and then slammed it shut again as an icy trickle of darkness warned him. A tall robed form shadowed the doorway.

"Bruck?" his cold voice murmured, its edges tinged with impatience.

Obi-Wan held himself completely still, transfixed. That voice. . .?

"He's in here!" Bruck hissed. "I heard something." He raised his voice. "I know you're here, Oafy. Hiding like a scared little rodent. Come out. Show you're worth something!"

"If he were here, such a clumsy taunt would hardly be sufficient to move him," the tall figure said. His voice was low, almost a whisper; yet every word was distinct, etched with the acid of dark purpose. "Rather, I think that Obi-Wan Kenobi requires more subtle motivation."

The dark one strode forward, past Bruck, and began to walk down the aisle between the first two rows of containers. His words slid sinuously among them.

"It may interest you to know, young Kenobi, that Master Qui-Gon Jinn will be finishing his errand on Triki any moment now, one way or another. When he returns to Coruscant, I feel that he will be most interested in your activities while he was away."

He paused, gazing up toward the ceiling as if gathering his thoughts.

"Let's see. You have lost your lightsaber, provoked a fight with young Bruck here, been attacked with a knife by a mysterious stranger and yet failed to report it, or anything else for that matter, to the esteemed Jedi Council. None of these actions show much skill or wisdom on your part."

His voice dropped to a vicious hiss.

"Perhaps Qui-Gon Jinn will rethink his decision to take a Padawan."

The bile of sick horror coated Obi-Wan's throat. This grim figure somehow knew all his movements since he'd returned, and apparently, Qui-Gon's as well. He seemed to sense Obi-Wan's deepest fears. A miasma of emotion clouded Obi-Wan's mind. He shook his head slightly, to clear it, and shouted to himself, in the deepest confines of his sprit, "No! Qui-Gon accepted me as Padawan. He wouldn't change his mind that way. He wouldn't. He wouldn't. . ."

Wrapping his mind in those two words to the exclusion of all else, Obi-Wan lowered himself to his hands and knees, and began to crawl noiselessly down the row of containers. The robed menace was only three rows away, obviously listening intently, trying to sense Obi-Wan's location. But Obi-Wan filled his mind with a gray haze, focusing only on his faith in Qui-Gon, and of moving without sound.

Bruck had retreated to the stacks of smaller containers along the front wall of the room, and was peering behind them, his stocky back spotlighted by the open door's rectangle of light. The dark one had reached the end of the first row, near the far wall. Obi-Wan seized the chance. He leaped to his feet, grabbed the lid of the container in front of him and flung it at Bruck with all his strength, edge-on. The movement warned Bruck too late, and the lid struck him just above the ear as he turned his head. He dropped as if blasted by a macrogun. The robed attacker leaped over the containers, lightsaber ignited, but Obi-Wan was already running out the door. The enemy followed, slowing his pace almost imperceptibly as he lunged into the corridor. He was far behind when Obi-Wan made a graceful bend in mid-stride, scooping up the lightsaber he had dropped at the beginning of their battle, and activating it as he turned.

A glint of hard admiration showed behind the mask, but the robed man did not raise his own weapon. The glowing blade remained pointed at the floor.

"Are you really ready to engage me in a duel?" he called down the hall, his voice a rasping whisper. "You cannot possibly defeat me. You are intelligent enough to know this." He gestured casually with a black-gloved hand as Bruck Chun stumbled out of the storage room, so possessed by anger that he was incoherent.

"And even if you were willing to try your skill with me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you cannot battle both of us." The menace in the voice deepened. "Give yourself up now. You cannot win this fight."

Beside him, Bruck ignited his saber and charged down the hall with an inarticulate cry.

At the far end, Obi-Wan looked at Bruck coming, but he focused on the dark one.

He wants me to leave, he thought. Why? Why let me go? He knows I'll have every Jedi in the Temple down here in five minutes. . .

But there was no more time to think. He must leave, or be forced to defend himself against Bruck. The other boy was almost on him. With a quick twist, Obi-Wan ducked into the lift tube. The door slid closed in front of Bruck's slashing saber, and Obi-Wan heard, faintly, the other boy's hoarse shout.

He could not discern the words, but the blazing rage contained in them was clear as starless space, and just as dark.

At the other end of the corridor, the gleaming eyes watching this filled with satisfaction, and the mask hid a smile born of genuine delight.

"Go, Kenobi," he murmured. "Take your lightsaber and run."

* * *

Garen and Reeft lingered over their food as long as they possibly could, but now the warning chime was sounding, and the two other chairs at their table remained empty.

"Where could they be?" Reeft said finally, breaking the thoughtful silence.

"I don't know," Garen said, fingering a crust of bread. "But I hope they're all right." He glanced around the rapidly-emptying room and lowered his voice. Reeft leaned forward to catch the words.

"I didn't see Bruck Chun here either."

Reeft nodded. The two boys shared a grim look as they stood.

"Maybe," Garen said slowly, "It's nothing. Maybe they just weren't hungry."

Reeft shook his head. "You don't really think that, and neither do I. There's something wrong. I have a bad feeling."

"Yes," Garen looked over to the wall where the mark of the thrown shiv was still faintly visible. "So do I."


	9. Chapter 9

**Joint Strength Part Nine**

Obi-Wan stood in the exact center of the lift, head down, breath quick, thoughts racing. The lift's simple computer, programmed to avoid wasteful use of power, prompted its passenger with a soft four-tone.

"Oh," Obi-Wan shook his head, clearing away the knotted strands of unfocused thought cluttering his mind, and looked up toward the computer's voder panel. "Take me to the Council Chamber." He thought wryly of his fears the day before, his determination to stay silent about the destruction of his room and the knife attack. Those incidents now seemed almost trivial in comparison to the dark enemy he had found in the bowels of the Temple, and his worries concerning his own status seemed laughable. The Masters must know of this at once. And, if he needed to find a Master, best to go straight to most obvious source. . .

"This is a secondary lift, sir. Access to the Chamber level is not available." The lift's voice sounded faintly impatient.

"Right." Obi-Wan considered this for a bare moment, and then said, "Take me to the nearest level with a lift that _will_ access the Council level."

"Level six, sir." The lift whooshed into motion, and fell thankfully silent. Obi-Wan lapsed back into thought, replaying the final moments down in the hall with his brow furrowed.

He wanted me to leave, he thought. Wanted me to get away. Why? Doesn't make any sense. . .

One hand clenched unconsciously around his lightsaber. Wanted me to leave, his inner voice repeated. Wanted me to. . .tell the Masters? Does he _want_ the Masters to know he's down there? Why?

But his mind refused to supply any plausible reason for such a desire on the part of his dark attacker. Every scenario that Obi-Wan could imagine led directly to the robed man being caught and held by a large number of skillful Jedi Masters. Why would the dark one want to be found? What possible objective would that achieve?

Despite the lack of rationality, a growing conviction solidified in his heart. The man down there _did_ want Obi-Wan to broadcast his presence. What other reason could there be for letting him escape? The lift glided to a smooth halt, its doors sliding silently open. Obi-Wan remained absolutely still, his mind seeking the motives of another mind six levels down.

"Others are waiting for this lift's service," the voder intoned darkly.

Spearing it with an impatient glance, Obi-Wan strode into the hall, angling his steps toward the main lift at the far end.

It's not really my problem now, he thought. The Masters are wiser than me, more qualified to deal with this. They'll know what to do. . .

But even as this thought flitted by, his steps were slowing, until he came to a complete halt three strides away from the main lift.

Use your instincts, Obi-Wan.

He could almost hear Qui-Gon's voice. He knew with absolute certainty, somehow, that these would be his Master's words if Qui-Gon were here to give him advice.

His instincts. . .

What were they telling him?

The dark one wanted his presence known. He was using Obi-Wan as his mouthpiece. He wanted Obi-Wan to run to the Masters.

Obi-Wan's mouth tightened into a thin, grim line.

All right, then. He would _not_ go. He would not be his enemy's tool.

But what should he do? A spasm of nauseating uncertainty twisted his face. Stay here, or go. . .where? What to do?

He let out his breath in an explosive gust of frustration, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling.

And his gaze settled speculatively on the polished metal cover of a ventilation shaft.

* * *

Qui-Gon followed Molu along a wooden walkway, this one roofed over with a series of latticework arches interlaced with blooming vines. A sweet, velvety scent thickened the air, and the faint sound of running water played a gentle harmony with the bird and insect song. The _sinna_ was dozing comfortably, curled around Molu's shoulders. An absolute peace seemed to permeate every pore of the living jungle.

But it was a false picture. Qui-Gon smiled grimly, feeling the claws of fear scratching faintly at his heart's door. Outward peace gave him no comfort just now, and he could sense the anguished turmoil within his companion without even making an effort. The beauty around them was wasted on an unappreciative audience.

After a few hundred meters, the walkway turned, and began climbing a set of broad steps. Qui-Gon realized that the dark shape he could see through the trees ahead was the back wall of the king's Residence.

"Molu," he said, voice low and slightly dangerous. "Why are we returning to the Court?"

The general turned his head, not really looking at Qui-Gon and not slowing his stride. "If I break the taboo, I break it with honor. I will not leave my world like a skulking thief."

Qui-Gon reached forward and grasped Molu's shoulder, forcing him to stop and face him squarely. The _sinna_ flicked its tail irritably without opening its eyes.

"General," he said, "I don't understand what you plan to do, but it has the sound of something large and irrevocable. I do not wish to cause you trouble with your people or your gods. So, I ask again, will you tell me where the ships are, and walk away?"

Molu shook his head. "No. My friend, sometimes honor demands sacrifice. Don't sully our friendship by taking honor away from me. What I do, I do for myself and for Teek, because Teek can no longer act as his honor should demand, and the task of ridding the galaxy of his evil falls on me. The gods will it so."

Qui-Gon studied him for a moment, sensing the absolute sincerity of his words. Slowly, he nodded and stepped back, indicating that Molu should lead the way.

The general looked down, the iron hardness of his face softening minutely. "I thank you, friend Jedi. May I be worthy of the respect you show me."

Together, they strode into the Residence of Orthu Bela. The Main Court was filled with Court officials, members of the nobility and common Trikans with petitions for the king. Their animated conversations billowed through the huge hall, a wave of sound amplified by the hard stone floor. Beyond a particularly raucous group of courtiers, Qui-Gon saw Orthu Bela standing on a raised platform, deep in subdued conversation with several advisors. He was leaning casually against the back of his wooden throne, still managing, despite the easy pose, to look powerfully regal.

Molu walked straight through the noisy throng, pausing only to lift the drowsy _sinna_ onto a high shelf attached to one pillar. His eyes were fixed on Orthu Bela, his face so still it looked like wood instead of flesh. When he reached the king's dais, he stepped forward and bowed deeply, wrists crossed in front of his face. He waited motionless for the king to acknowledge him.

"General Molu," Orthu Bela said, bellowing cheerfully over the din, "Can I do something for you?" He looked past Molu to Qui-Gon, and raised a hand in greeting, flashing his jovial smile. Qui-Gon bowed in return.

"My king," Molu's voice was strong and solemn, "The Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn must return to Coruscant. I will take him aboard one of our military transports."

Orthu Bela nodded, eyes faintly puzzled. "Fine. You didn't really need to ask my permission. . ."

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I haven't made myself clear. We must go to Coruscant at once. Now."

He waited, head bowed, as the meaning of those words penetrated the king and the others nearby. A strained, cold silence began to spread from the dais outward, like a drop of black ink in a basin of clear water.

Finally, the king spoke, his voice low. "You cannot go, my friend. The gods are walking."

Murmurs of agreement hummed in the air. Several of the nearby courtiers shuffled backward a few steps, leaving a circle of bare floor around Molu. Qui-Gon turned his head, locking eyes with one of the shufflers until he looked down and away, eyes embarrassed and frightened.

Molu raised his head, snaring the king's gaze with his own. "My king, you know that I have served the gods and the people with all my spirit for these many years. I have given the gods their due honor. In this case, honor demands that I serve the gods best by breaking the purity of their sky. I have no time to explain the circumstances. We must leave, now, and you must trust me, based on my years of faithful service, that what I do is right."

"Right!" an outraged voice shouted from the back of the room. "What do you know of right?"

Qui-Gon turned to see a short, exquisitely-attired man pushing his way forward. He recognized the pinched-mouth expression at once: it was the Cultural Officer, Kai, who had met his transport when he had first arrived. The man shot one virulent glare at Qui-Gon as he scurried by, and then focused all his attention on the king.

"Your Majesty, you cannot allow this sacrilege! The sky must remain pure; there is no excuse for violating it! Surely these men can wait a mere eight or ten hours until the moon begins its waning?"

Qui-Gon stepped forward. "Eight or ten hours could mean the death of one, or many, on Coruscant."

" 'Could?' " Kai sputtered. "You do not have any certain knowledge?"

"We have enough," Molu said coldly. "This business does not concern you, Kai. I speak to the king."

"And what does the king say?" Kai spat out. "Our king will not allow this evil."

"The true evil is being perpetuated even as we speak. We go to Coruscant to stop it."

Molu's gaze remained steadfastly on Orthu Bela, who had looked away, eyes remote, mouth grim. "The gods will it."

Kai gasped, pulling back. "What do you know of the gods' will? The gods speak only through the Oracle!"

"Enough!" The king jerked his chin toward Kai, his eyes bright with irritation. "This is not the time for theological speculation." He turned to Molu and Qui-Gon. "You cannot wait?"

"No." Qui-Gon's voice was solid as steel.

A long silence grew, pressing down on the inhabitants of the Court until they began to stir uneasily. The king's eyes bored into Molu's face, and the general stared back, unblinking. Finally, after several minutes, the king looked up. His voice was firm as he addressed the entire room.

"Molu has spoken truth today. He believes his actions are right. The Jedi Qui-Gon Jinn believes his actions are right." He paused, and his voice grew softer, suffused with pain. "But I cannot agree. The sky must remain inviolate. Molu and Qui-Gon Jinn must stay till the waning."

Qui-Gon closed his eyes briefly, disappointment washing over him. Now he truly would have to find those ships himself, and his leaving would surely cause what his friend Valorum liked to call "an interplanetary brouhaha", but he had no choice. He felt the Living Force calling him back to Coruscant at once.

These thoughts flickered through his mind in an instant, and he opened his eyes, determined to get on with whatever action was necessary to achieve his goal. Molu stood beside him, shoulders bent. Qui-Gon saw with concern that his friend's face was ashen, as if he struggled with piercing physical pain. He stepped closer, and gripped the general's arm, just above the elbow.

"Molu," he said quietly, "are you well?"

The general shook his head, and twisted his shoulder, freeing his arm. He straightened, and murmured, "Step back."

Qui-Gon stepped closer. His voice deepened to an urgent whisper. "No. Don't do something you'll regret. I can find a way myself. . ."

Molu strode forward, eyes fixed on the king. As he walked, he drew his shining dagger from his belt and lifted it shoulder-high, the blade directly in front of his face. The king stepped back with an exclamation, and two heavily-armed guards leaped forward, but Molu stopped two strides from the dais, and shouted, "Hear me!"

He turned in a full circle, the blade winking and flashing in the sunlight spilling from the upper windows. The crowd backed away, leaving a barren space around him as he finished his circle, and addressed the king.

"My grief stands tall because my king refuses to trust me. My heart lies low because I am attacked by one who knows nothing of what he speaks."

All eyes in the room slid over to Kai, who shifted uncomfortably but stared unwaveringly at Molu, an indignant red spreading over his face. Molu raised the knife higher, above his head, pointing it straight at the ceiling. His voice dropped to a harsh whisper that carried to every corner of the huge room.

"Because none will hear me, I address myself to the gods. They alone will see me and judge my actions!"

A gasp ricocheted around the room. Orthu Bela sprang forward with a cry, his hand reaching for the knife, but Molu moved too quickly. He pulled his sleeveless tunic open and then, taking the hilt with both hands, he turned the blade to his own chest and made two quick slashes, directly below his collarbone. Qui-Gon crossed the distance between them in one quick stride, and seized the general's wrist. The crossed marks on his chest were welling blood, which dripped unevenly down to his waist, but Qui-Gon saw at once that they were not deadly. He looked into Molu's face, eyes questioning.

To his surprise, the general smiled almost imperceptibly. "I will explain later, friend Jedi," he murmured.

An uneasy stirring filled the Court. Turning away from Molu, Qui-Gon saw that all the people in the room had dropped their eyes and begun backing away, as if the general had suddenly announced he bore a deadly disease. Even the king had stepped back behind his throne, but he still gazed at them, shoulders slumped.

Molu bowed deeply, giving Orthu Bela another wrists-crossed salute. Then, he jerked his chin toward the main doors.

"Come, Master Jedi. We go to Coruscant. No one will try to stop us."

He did not see Cultural Officer Kai slipping out a side entrance with three royal guards.

But Qui-Gon did.

They had almost reached the doors when a piercing wail stopped them. They turned to see the _sinna_ leaping from its high perch and scampering across the floor toward them, slipping a little on the polished floor. The scraping of its claws was loud in the absolute silence permeating the room.

Molu bent, and the creature scrambled up his arm, leaving several new scratches to join the ones already marking his skin. As they walked out of the Court, the general glanced up at Qui-Gon, who smiled slightly.

"It seems you've secured a friend for life."

Molu's answering smile flickered almost too quickly to be seen. "I need friends. I fear I've lost many today."

Qui-Gon's only answer was a slow nod. "I hope that you're wrong about that, but I don't really understand what just happened."

"I'll explain as we go. This way."

They walked quickly down a narrow walkway bordering the Residence's north wall. After a few steps, Molu began to speak, motioning toward the slash marks on his chest.

"By marking myself in this way, I've placed myself entirely under the gods' eyes. They alone will judge me. If what I have done pleases them, then the Oracle will pronounce me pure before the people at the next waxing of the moon."

The walkway branched ahead, and he indicated the right-hand path. Veering onto it, Qui-Gon asked slowly, "And if the gods are displeased with your actions?"

Molu was silent. Finally, after many strides, he said, "The Oracle will pronounce judgment. I will likely be stripped of rank and banished forever from Triki."

"You take a great risk in the name of honor. I wish. . . ."

Molu interrupted, shaking his head. "There is no risk. If banishment is the cost that the gods demand of my honor, then so be it."

Qui-Gon murmured, "As the Force wills."

They emerged from the trees to see a large docking pit ringed with open-sided buildings, each containing a small, sleek ship painted a bright primary hue. Molu pointed toward the nearest one, a vivid blue, and said, "A military transport ship. It can take up to ten passengers."

Qui-Gon nodded absently, distracted. The Force swirled uneasily about him, turning his head just in time for his eyes to register a glimmering of metal in the trees off to the right. Taking no time for thought, he let the Force's prompting carry him as he stepped easily in front of the general, catching with one hand the metal dart aimed at his friend's midsection. With his other hand, he drew and ignited his lightsaber, and deflected three more darts.

A shout of rage streamed out of the trees. Molu, who had just now begun to react, was drawing his dagger. The _sinna_ screeched and huddled into a ball on Molu's left shoulder.

"No!" Qui-Gon pointed toward the ship. "Get it ready for departure!"

Molu leaped forward, as Qui-Gon defected a fifth dart, and strode toward the trees. Three royal guards raced out from under them, followed closely by Kai, as Qui-Gon had expected. He let the guards come forward a few more meters and then lifted his hand and blocked them with the Force. They fell backwards as if they had run full-speed into a stone wall.

Dazed, they stayed crumpled on the ground, ignoring Kai's shouted exhortation for them to attack once more.

"Kai," Qui-Gon said, his voice firm. "General Molu walks under the eyes of the gods. Why do you to attack him?"

"He is violating taboo!" Kai's face was suffused with rage. "He is a disgrace to the gods!"

"Isn't that their decision? Earlier you accused Molu of speaking for the gods. Aren't you now doing the same?"

"No! I am a Cultural Officer! I do what is right." Qui-Gon saw the little man fingering another dart. With a quick flick of his fingers, he detached the weapon from Kai's hand and flung it off into the trees. Kai emitted an inarticulate shout, and moved as if to follow it. Qui-Gon stopped him with a warning shake of his head, his eyes steely.

"Kai, Molu is committed to the gods, and I am committed to saving lives on Coruscant. I fear that you have lost track of what exactly it is that you are committed to. Your actions here are as much a violation of taboo as the general's."

Behind him, he heard the roar of the ship's engines as they ignited. He could feel Kai's rage filling the clearing, but beneath it he caught a tinge of desperate uncertainty, and deliberately turned his back to walk over to the ship's entrance ramp. At its foot, he turned back.

"Molu rests in the hands of the gods. I suggest you leave him there."

He strode up the ramp into the ship, thoughts already focused on their destination.

Obi-Wan, stay alive! he thought, flinging the call out into the Force. Use your instincts!

Molu was already strapped in the pilot's seat, lifting the ship out of Triki's atmosphere. He looked up as Qui-Gon seated himself and began fastening his restraints.

"I've already computed the route." He motioned to the _sinna_, who was curled at his feet. "I guess we've got a third passenger."

Qui-Gon nodded, eyes remote. Unconsciously, his hands tightened over the arms of his seat.

Ten hours to Coruscant.

* * *

In a dim room hidden in the Temple's lowest levels, the man called Morran paced like a feral animal, his steps made staccato by a seething excitement. Watching from his perch atop a storage barrel, Bruck Chun felt his rage recede, smothered under the blanket of uneasiness laid over the room by Morran's dark, strange emotions. The man looked over at the boy, and grinned sharply.

"We're almost to the end of this," he said, voice permeated with shadowy satisfaction.

"Any minute now. Any minute. . ."


	10. Chapter 10

**Joint Strength Part Ten**

The hypnotic regularity of Morran's pacing lulled Bruck into a state of complacency. He didn't understand the man's exultant words or his raging emotions, but he felt, above all else, that he was committed to this course now, and it was best to simply wait and see where it took him.

Morran crossed the room again and again, his steps driven by a seething excitement. But minutes crept past, each growing more leaden, until Bruck realized with a start that he had been crouching on this barrel for over an hour.

Time limped by. Morran's soaring exultation disappeared under a rising flood of impatience. Suddenly, with a fierce epithet, he threw back the hood of his cloak and ripped the black mask from his face. Bruck's eyes registered shoulder-length black hair and a face, coldly handsome, that contrasted sharply with eyes so blazing they dominated the boy's attention at once.

"What is he _doing_?" Morran hissed. "What will it take to force him to report something?"

Bruck shifted, uncomfortable with such naked rage, for all the polished exterior that contained it. The movement caught Morran's attention, and his face relaxed into a semblance of its former warmth as he studied Bruck's apprehensive posture.

"Never fear, my young friend," he said smoothly. "Our plan is still valid. We have only to find the trigger that will send Kenobi to the council chamber. Apparently what we have done is not sufficient."

"Surely he is reporting to them right now," Bruck said. "I mean, _I_ would be."

Morran's lips tightened. "It seems that our friend Obi-Wan is not so sensible as you." The dark blue eyes flared again with a strange fire. "I am quite certain that he had not approached the Council Chamber. You may trust me on that."

"Then what do we do now?" Bruck's voice was tinged with impatience.

Morran regarded him narrowly, and then smiled in sudden decisiveness. "You will go search him out. And when you find him, you will bring him to me."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Bruck protested. "He won't come back down here."

The dark eyes lost their surface warmth. "You are larger than him, more skillful, aren't you? And you have the advantage of knowing your purpose. He does not. If you don't have the intelligence to create a story that will bring him down here, then you must resort to force." He pivoted on one foot, lifting a dismissive hand. "I don't care how you do it. Just bring him."

A tiny smile appeared as he studied the mask in his other hand. Slowly, he murmured, "I need to show him my face."

When Bruck made no response, he turned back. Doubt was written large on the boy's face. Morran considered him, expressionless, for several long moments. Then, he suddenly stepped forward, placed a hand on Bruck's shoulder, and said, "Can it be that you do not have the courage to complete this plan? Perhaps your ambition to be apprentice to the great Knight is not so strong as I thought, to be dampened at the prospect of a little unpleasantness?"

As Bruck leaned away, eyes beginning to shade with anger, Morran added, "I guess you are afraid of him."

Bruck stiffened. "No! Why should I be? I can bring him.

Morran nodded, stepping back.

"Yes, you can," he said. "And you will."

Bruck strode out the door, shoulders stiff with resolve. The mocking smile reappeared on Morran's face as he turned to his makeshift workstation, gathered up a few tiny tools that lay there, and flipped open his enveloping cloak to replace them in his utility belt. It was then, in the silence, that he heard faintest whisper of sound, of cloth against metal, somewhere up above. He froze, all his senses searching outward, and then, slowly, the mocking smile returned to his face.

What had Bruck just said? 'He won't come back down here.'?

I guess you were mistaken, my little friend, he thought. He was staring upward at a meter-square vent cover near the ceiling, and his eyes were filled with hate.

* * *

Arms and legs taut with effort, Obi-Wan braced himself against the sloping sides of the ventilation shaft. His pace through the shafts had been painfully slow, and fraught with a difficulty that he hadn't considered when he began this endeavor: his right knee, not fully recovered from Bruck's savage blow yesterday, had almost immediately begun to throb in protest. At first, the pain had come only in short bursts, easily bearable as he crawled along the passage. But then, when he had faced the first vertical section, only negotiable by bracing himself against the walls and trusting the Force, the knee had erupted in a hot flow of streaming, igneous pain. As he paused now, sweat dripping steadily along his hairline and down his neck, the concentration necessary to brace himself and keep the agony at bay prevented him from really hearing the conversation in the room below.

He heard Bruck's voice, and a low, dark voice answering him, but the actual words escaped him. He decided to try a closer approach to the vent-cover.

Slowly, with almost infinitesimal movements, he moved along the shaft, forced to keep a constant pressure on his arms and legs to avoid sliding down into the cover. Smooth, vaguely threatening tones drifted up, settling uncomfortably in a small side-alley of Obi-Wan's consciousness.

That voice. . .

He was almost on the cover now, his feet only a few inches away from it. Struggling fiercely to ignore his screeching knee, he heard the voice below say, "I guess you are afraid of him."

Afraid of who? Me? Obi-Wan dismissed that. Couldn't be.

He heard Bruck deny any fear.

Below him, off to the side, he recognized the sound of the door sliding open and closed. Bruck leaving, he thought, his face twisting into a grimace as his knee sent a fiery warning of immanent collapse. Maybe if he could just shift most of his weight to the other leg. . .

Straining, he listened. Only deep silence in the room below. Had they both left? He slid a few more centimeters down the shaft. No. Now he heard the subtle sounds of movement. The man was still there.

With shocking suddenness, the vent-cover beneath him was ripped aside, and a dark robed arm snaked in and seized his good leg, just above the ankle. Obi-Wan felt himself jerked forward, and then he was falling out of the shaft.

Dimly, he saw the metal floor rushing up to greet him, and he twisted his body, just enough to get his legs under him. He slammed into the floor, and his injured leg collapsed completely beneath him. He had no time to consider it. Looking up, he saw the robed man leaping down at him from a stack of containers near the ventilation outlet, igniting his lightsaber as he jumped. The blade sizzled down, a great slashing blow aimed at Obi-Wan's good leg. Obi-Wan threw himself to the left, tightening his body into a compact curl that brought him to his feet a scant ten centimeters from where the lightsaber blade crashed into the floor. Activating his own weapon, Obi-Wan thrust forward, and immediately fell. His knee would support no weight. The dark attacker paused, watching Obi-Wan climb awkwardly to his feet, lightsaber in one hand, other arm leaning on a container for stability.

"Not at your best, are you?" the mocking voice said.

Obi-Wan's head snapped upward in sudden recognition. He stared at the deep hood, its shadow obscuring the man's features. But Obi-Wan didn't need to see the face to know the identity of his attacker.

"Xanatos," he said, his voice flat and even.

The robed figure executed a graceful bow. "At your service. It certainly took you a long time to recognize me."

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, come now, little Padawan. Surely you can guess; I don't think you're completely stupid, are you?"

Obi-Wan forced himself to remain expressionless. "You're setting some sort of trap for Master Qui-Gon, and you want me to be bait. Again."

Xanatos laughed. "No, not 'again'. On Bandomeer, you weren't really bait. You were just a nuisance."

"And this time?"

"This time?" The man stroked his chin, his eyes speculative. "No, this time I don't need you for bait either. I've already arranged for Qui-Gon Jinn's destruction."

Obi-Wan felt a cold knot of fear settle into his stomach, remembering how, earlier, this man had seemed informed of all their movements, both his and Qui-Gon's. Slowly, he said, "You connived that whole trip to Triki, somehow. You wanted to get Master Qui-Gon away from Coruscant."

Why? His mind scurried frantically, searching for an explanation.

Xanatos shifted, an angry scowl momentarily twisting his expression. "Yes. I sent him to Triki. I planned a lovely welcome for him there. Chances are, he's already dead."

The words slammed into Obi-Wan like an iron fist, their impact rocking him to his core. Master Qui-Gon, dead? But surely, somehow, he would have felt. . .

"And now," Xanatos continued, voice a low purr, "It's your turn."

Like a striking snake, the man swung his lightsaber at the boy's injured knee, and Obi-Wan managed to parry only by flinging his blade downward, narrowly missing his own foot. He fell onto his uninjured knee, and scrambled away, pushing with the good leg and left arm, trying to keep his lightsaber between himself and his opponent's next strike. Xanatos chopped at him, hampered by the limited space among the barrels, but swinging his weapon like an ax made of fire. Obi-Wan had just enough strength in his right arm to deflect the blows, while he kept pushing backward. He waited, watching desperately, until his enemy's arm was at the apex of his next chop, and then he kicked out with the wounded leg, ignoring the searing pain as his booted foot struck solidly into the man's unprotected thigh. Xanatos stumbled, giving Obi-Wan a millisecond of time to haul himself up onto his good leg, get both his hands on the hilt of his lightsaber, and swing mightily at his opponent's head. Xanatos easily ducked the blow, bringing his own blade up to parry, and their lightsabers crossed and caught, bathing their faces in an acidic glow. Xanatos' eyes were glittering with unrecognizable emotion.

"You can't possible defeat me," he hissed. "Today is your day to die, Kenobi."

Obi-Wan glared at him, jaw set grimly against the pain and fear braiding themselves into a solid cord within him. "Always in motion is the future," he gritted out. "If Master Yoda can't predict it, then I don't think you can either!"

He shoved his blade forward with all his strength, pushing his opponent back a step and giving himself a tiny space, just enough to push off with his good leg and backflip twice. Xanatos grunted angrily and charged forward, but Obi-Wan leaped again, catching the edge of an overhead rack, and swinging his body up onto it. He felt his left leg, his uninjured leg, tremble with fatigue. No more leaps left in it.

Looking down, he saw his enemy stalking forward, gazing up at him with dreadful purpose.

"You're right," Obi-Wan said, between pained gasps. "I can't beat you. But neither can you beat me! After all, if I die, who will report your presence to the Council?"

It was a guess, a desperate taunt based only on his earlier surmises, but it was effective. Xanatos stopped, and cocked his head to one side. Expectant silence filled the room.

"What do I care about the Council?' An obvious bravado coated the man's tone.

"You yourself know the answer to that. You gain nothing by my death."

Xanatos shook his head. "No, you're wrong about that, little Padawan. I gain a great deal. In killing you, I cause great grief and guilt in the heart of Qui-Gon Jinn, just on the bare chance that he's still alive, and that is all the success I need for today."

He gathered himself, preparing to copy the maneuver that Obi-Wan had just accomplished. Obi-Wan held himself tight, focusing on the Force as he never had before. As the man leaped upward to grasp the rack, Obi-Wan ignited his saber and whirled around, severing the supports that held the rack to the ceiling. Just as Xanatos appeared before him, the rack fell, dumping both of them six meters onto the hard floor. But the enemy wasn't ready to fall, and Obi-Wan was. It gave the slight advantage he needed. Extinguishing his saber and protecting his knee as best he could, he rolled forward onto his feet, forced his good leg to propel him upward in one final leap, and grabbed the edge of the coverless ventilation shaft. Awkwardly he hauled himself up and crawled into the shaft, feeling a rough edge catch and tear his tunic. He moved rapidly upward. There was nothing to stop Xanatos from following him, but his chances were better here in the shaft's close quarters than in the open rooms and corridors of the storage area below.

Behind him, Xanatos jumped to his feet and saw his quarry disappear into the shaft.

"No escape that way," he growled, loudly enough for the boy to hear. Moving much more slowly than he was capable of, he stepped forward, preparing to leap up to the shaft himself, when the door to the room abruptly slid aside.

A small figure stood hesitating in the room's entrance, head bent slightly forward to gaze into the dim interior.

"Obi-Wan?"

Her soft voice a bit uncertain, Bant entered the storage room.

* * *

The afternoon hours ground by with the speed of a crippled Corellian freighter. By evening meal, Garen had lost track of how many times he had checked the chronometer. Too many, he thought grimly. He glanced over at Reeft, who was gazing forlornly at the other two chairs at their table.

Empty chairs.

"Maybe, just possibly," Reeft murmured, "I can imagine them skipping noonmeal. But I _can't_ imagine Bant missing all of her afternoon classes, and I really can't imagine them skipping evening meal too." He stood suddenly, pushing back his chair with a screech and earning a few startled looks from nearby tables. "So, it's obvious that something's seriously wrong with our friends. What are we going to do about it?"

"Tell a Master. Any Master," Garen answered promptly.

"We promised Obi-Wan," Reeft said, shaking his head.

"We promised Obi-Wan not to tell about the knife and the things that happened before that. We didn't make any promises about everything that's happened since."

"But what's happened, really?"

Garen opened his mouth, and then closed it helplessly. Finally, he said, "Nothing tangible, I guess. Nothing that sounds bad, unless you know the whole story."

"Exactly."

"They _are_ missing. That's something."

"We don't know they're missing."

"Right. So, we'll go look everywhere for them, and if we don't find them, we'll tell the Masters."

"Tell them what?"

"I don't know!" Garen stood as well, his eyes darkened with frustration. "We'll think of something. Come on, let's go."

For the first time in his residence at the Temple, Reeft left the Dining Room without having eaten one morsel. The two boys moved rapidly through the halls, by common consent aiming toward Obi-Wan's chamber in the Students' Quarters. It seemed to both of them the logical place to start.

As they rounded the corner to hall that led there, they saw at once that a door halfway down was open. Obi-Wan's room. Exchanging one startled glance, they broke into a quick jog that quickly increased, until they entered their friend's chamber at a dead run.

It was empty.

But even as the recognition of barren space impressed itself on them, a second impression, of stealthy movement, seized Garen, propelling him to the entry of Obi-Wan's bath. With a strangled shout, he dived into the tiny room, and struggled out again a moment later, arm firmly fastened around the neck of Bruck Chun.

"Bruck!" Reeft leaped forward, eyes slightly wild. "What are you doing in Obi-Wan's room? Where is he?"

"Yes," Garen grunted, tightening his grip. "Speak up."

"Do," a quiet voice said. "I'm most interested in this entire conversation."

All three boys turned startled eyes to the doorway, recognizing at once the cool face and confident stance of A'ali Cek. "Um. . ." Reeft started to speak, and then gave up. A'ali's steady eyes fastened on Garen, who reluctantly released his hold on Bruck. No one spoke for a moment. The three students were horrified to be caught in such a situation by A'ali, a Jedi nearly a Knight, Padawan to one of the most senior members of the Council. As for A'ali, she had learned well the virtues of silence impressed upon her by Tel Udrunn. She merely waited.

Bruck suddenly sputtered, "They attacked me! For no reason! I was here just to. . ." He stumbled, suddenly unsure how to complete that sentence, and Garen and Reeft burst into explanation.

"He knows something!"

"Our friend is missing, and. . ."

"We haven't seen him all day!"

"Yes," A'ali said, cutting easily through the tangled words. She studied them carefully, eyes curious. "Well, I myself am wondering very much why Obi-Wan Kenobi doesn't answer his comlink. Would anyone here have an opinion on that topic?"

Silence.

Then Bruck stepped forward, eyes filled with concerned sincerity.

"I saw him," he said. "He left the Temple. I don't know where he was going. But he's definitely not anywhere around here."


	11. Chapter 11

**Joint Strength Part Eleven**

They dove through the whirling well of hyperspace like a waterbeast through deep ocean, but neither Qui-Gon nor Molu took pleasure in their graceful flight. Molu glanced repeatedly at the Jedi, growing concern darkening his eyes, until finally he could bear the suspense no longer, and asked, "Is it bad?"

"What?" The question retrieved Qui-Gon from far away, and he glanced over at his companion with a slightly puzzled expression. "I'm sorry. . .?"

"Is it bad?' At his feet, the _sinna_ stirred in its sleep, its sensitive mind disturbed by the tension in the general's voice. Qui-Gon shook his head, a smile emerging despite the gravity of his thoughts. "I'm afraid I don't have the slightest idea what you mean, my friend."

Molu did not return the smile. "I thought you must be . . .receiving a bad feeling, from your young protégé." He jerked his chin downward, toward Qui-Gon's leg. "You keep rubbing your knee."

Startled, Qui-Gon looked down to find his hand doing just that, almost of its own volition. He concentrated then, attempting to isolate and categorize his impressions of the last few hours. He hadn't felt further waves of stark fear, but any focus on Obi-Wan brought at once roiling currents of conflict, too scattered to pin down, but real enough to give solidity to the ghostly worry haunting his heart.

Now, with Molu's comment, he realized that the constant undertow in the emotional river was pain. He'd been receiving impressions of physical pain for some time. Obi-Wan's pain.

His jaw tight as carbon rope, he stared down at his hand, stopping its incessant rubbing with sheer will. Slowly, he said, "I think it is bad, General. Bad, indeed."

As if signaled, both men looked over at the trip-chronometer mounted on the cockpit's right wall. Its readout showed a cascade of numbers streaming rapidly downward, but not quickly enough to satisfy either of the watchers.

Four hours to Coruscant.

* * *

The Mon Calamari are a species famed for courage and extreme valor in the heat of battle. They are cool-headed, loyal, and occasionally blessed with a scathing gallows humor that illuminates the blackest moments.

Sitting confined in the darkness, Bant considered her heritage, and wished mightily that a large dose of Calamarian legend could be injected into her veins. She felt neither courageous, nor cool, nor humorous. She did feel loyal, but she wasn't sure how far that was going to carry her.

Not very, she thought, disconsolately lifting one elbow to ease the pressure on her bound wrists. What I really need right now is some heavy-duty valor.

She lost herself briefly in a pleasant vision, seeing Warrior Bant snapping her bonds as if they were silken threads and striding forth to wreak havoc on the evildoer who had bound her here. But the darkness around her pressed in, smothering the vision before it had much chance to grow, and she soon found her mind reliving the events of the past few hours: a strong impression of Obi-Wan in danger, following the impression down, down, down. Stepping through a door, a brief glimpse of a robed figure, recognizable at once as the same one she had seen earlier that day while trailing after Bruck. Her mouth opening to speak, her eyes suddenly noting the small blaster that appeared out of nowhere in the other's hand. A surge of adrenaline, her own hand stretching out to snatch it with the Force. . .

A burst of light. And then nothingness.

From the stiffness in her body, she assumed it had been a long period of nothingness. She'd awakened to find herself tightly bound, in an utterly dark room. She had no sense of time or location, despite casting about rather desperately with the Force. A Knight would have been able to sense something of her surroundings, to "see" the situation. A Knight could have loosened the tight binders on her wrists with a moment of concentration. But Bant was a young student of the Force, and those skills had yet to be perfected in her.

A chill settled over her heart.

The door slid aside abruptly, letting a rectangle of painful light into the blackness. Bant jerked her head away from it, involuntarily closing her eyes against the light's sudden assault. When she forced them open, just a slit, she saw a dark form walk forward to stand in front of her. She had a distinct feeling of being gazed down upon.

Valor, she reminded herself. With stiff movements quite unlike her usual grace, she struggled to her feet, and lifted her chin to stare her enemy in the eye.

The Mon Calamari do not like to be looked down on.

"Very impressive, little girl," a smooth voice said. "But you could have remained seated. I don't require anyone to rise in my presence."

"I'm sure you don't," Bant replied, her eyes searching the depths of the hooded face before her. "I stand for myself, not for your honor."

A soft chuckle issued from the hood. Bant's mouth tightened as she continued, "Not for your amusement, either."

"Whatever suits you. I'm actually more interested in your identity. I need to send someone a message, and I'd like to make it more friendly by including your name."

Bant forced a smile, though she had never felt less like smiling. "Obi-Wan's not such a fool as that. He would never believe a false message."

The shadowed head cocked to one side, and hidden eyes regarded her. "Why are you so sure I'm interested in Kenobi.?"

Bant looked away. "And I'm not such a fool as to give you my name."

Somehow she knew that a cruel smile curved under the hood. "I didn't ask you to give it, did I? I have other ways of getting what I need."

* * *

The stunned silence following Bruck's pronouncement imploded into furious words. Garen and Reeft both rounded on him, speaking at the same time, with the same loud volume.

"That is pure Sith. . .when did you see him? Where? What was he doing?" "He wouldn't just leave the Temple!"

"You're lying!" "Wait." Once again, A'ali's gentle voice somehow cut the babble like a saber. Her eyes rested measuringly on Bruck, but she spoke to the two others. "It's a grave matter, to call someone untruthful. I advise caution."

A small spark of triumph animated Bruck's eyes, and then was quickly snuffed as she added, "Since we are all obviously concerned about your friend, perhaps we should work together to locate him."

She turned to Bruck, and continued, "You saw him leave?"

Face tight, Bruck nodded.

"Out of which exit?"

A barely noticeable pause. "The south garden doors."

A'ali frowned. "I see. And did you notice which way he turned as he went out?"

Bruck shook his head decisively. "Not at all."

A small silence settled over them. Garen and Reeft stared at A'ali, both of them vibrating with impatience and frustration. Finally, she said, musingly, "There is a wrongness here. It could be that I am feeling only your concern for your friend. . ." She looked away from them for a moment, brow creased with thought, and then squared her shoulders in sudden decision. "Whatever the situation, it seems best that Obi-Wan be found, and we four will devote ourselves to that. Agreed?"

Garen and Reeft nodded, their eyes turning at once to Bruck. But he was nodding too, his face a picture of eager dutifulness, and both of the other boys scowled at him.

A'ali noticed this, but said nothing of it. Instead she directed them to follow her. They left Obi-Wan's chamber and strode through the busy halls and out the south garden doors, where A'ali gathered them around her. The southern face of the Temple reared above them like a monumental cliff.

"We'll search the grounds first, before we consider the possibility that he's left the Temple compound entirely. I'll take the south garden. Bruck. . ."

"I'll search the River trails." Bruck interrupted quickly.

A'ali paused for a moment, studying him, and then nodded. "Very well."

She turned to Garen and Reeft, "One of you take the north garden, and the other the hanger and outer support buildings. We'll all meet back here in two hours, unless one of us finds him and signals the others." She tapped her comlink.

Murmurs of agreement emerged from the three boys, and they separated, Bruck jogging with alacrity toward the River trails, and Garen and Reeft walking around the corner to the north, talking together in voices low and urgent. A'ali watched them all go, and then, shifting her lightsaber to a more comfortable position at her hip, she strode with a warrior's grace onto the main garden path before her, and disappeared among the trees.

Many minutes passed, disturbed only by the calls of citified songbirds, calls that abruptly ceased as a dark figure moved out from behind a small copse of kejaberry bushes. Glancing furtively about, Bruck hurried across the open green and re-entered the Temple.

* * *

Obi-Wan clenched his teeth, willing the bacta gel to work just a little faster. Above his tight jaw, his eyes shifted repeatedly to the tiny room's door, barely discernible in the dim light. The hum of a TSD's motivator approached, pausing on the other side of the door, and Obi-Wan felt every muscle tense, but the sound dopplered away. He forced himself to relax, recalling a vague memory of someone. . .Reeft, maybe?. . .telling him that tension hindered the bacta's efficiency.

He grimaced.

If there's one thing I need, he thought, it's efficient bacta.

A wave of impatience encompassed him. He could almost feel the minutes crawling over him, like a line of marching insects. How long had he been in here, anyway? It must have taken him more than an hour to slowly haul himself along the ventilation shaft up one floor and over at least four halls, expecting every moment to be overtaken. He had counted the vent covers, promising himself he would continue past ten, but by the seventh the pain in his knee was too excruciating to continue. Pushing the seventh cover open and gingerly levering himself out, he had wondered how to get down to the floor without inflicting further damage. In the end, he had simply let himself fall, taking the impact mostly on his good leg.

Mostly.

And then only one thought had possessed him. Bacta.

But procuring a tube of healing gel was no simple task, because, usually, bacta gel was applied by a medic droid, and Obi-Wan knew that any medic droid would routinely access his records, discover that he had already been treated for this same injury less than 24 hours previously, and immediately report the situation to the Jedi Healer on duty in the infirmary. And the Healer would most certainly want to know how Obi-Wan had reinjured his knee so severely. That was a story Obi-Wan didn't want to tell.

He had stirred uneasily, unsure why he remained convinced that silence and solitude were the best defense to Xanatos' scheme, whatever it was. But his enemy's reaction to his desperate taunt had strengthened his resolve. No matter what he did, Obi-Wan refused to be a simmycat tamely following where Xanatos led.

All right, then, so how to get the bacta without being seen? This had involved a stealthy, painful stint in a storage compartment opposite the infirmary, waiting until the room appeared clear of droids and Healers. Then, a dash-well, really several panicked hops-into the infirmary, a desperate grab at a gel tube lying on a supply cart, and another fast hop back into the storage room, his breath coming in pained gasps. And here, in the tiny compartment, he had collapsed. Removing his boot had produced such stabbing pain in the knee that he had turned his chin into his shoulder and bit down hard on his tunic to keep from making any sound. The knee's swollen, discolored surface had made him swallow, slightly sickened. After treating the knee, he had been mildly surprised to discover a long bleeding scrape along his thigh, which he attributed, after a moment, to a vague memory of the shaft's uneven lip tearing at his clothing. He hadn't even noticed the scrape until now.

So he had applied the gel to that, too, and then settled down to wait for some healing to occur.

He felt as if he had been waiting for hours. I ought to help it along, he thought. Focus the Force on it.

But any attempt to concentrate degenerated almost immediately into a series of unsteady thoughts, endlessly repeating in an infinite loop that circled the chambers of his heart.

He said Master Qui-Gon was dead.

He's lying!

But what if it's true?

No! I'd have known, I'd have felt it if. . .

He said Master Qui-Gon was dead.

He was almost grateful to the TSD for distracting him. As the hum of its motor faded, he wrenched his mind away from the its vicious spinning and forced it to consider his next move. If he was determined to keep silent about Xanatos' presence, then only two options remained. He could either ignore his enemy and let him do his will down there. Or he could go back down and stop him. He stared down at his blood-stained leg and swollen knee, watching a drip of greenish gel ooze slowly down his shin. Confronting Xanatos again didn't seem like a very viable course of action, but neither was sitting here in a storage compartment doing nothing.

Master Qui-Gon, he thought suddenly, fiercely. You had better not be dead. I don't know what I should do. I don't know what action to take. I need to be _trained_.

A wry smile creased his face at the futility of this silent plea. But even as he dismissed his own whimsy, another wishful thought possessed him and refused to be dismissed.

Maybe Master Qui-Gon has sent a message. I haven't been at my room all day. There could be a message on my 'pad.

Sternly, he told himself that this was a forlorn hope, born of pain and exhaustion and the insidious tendrils of worry burying themselves ever deeper in his spirit. But his heart rejected the cool logic of his mind with a passionate cry: there _could_ be a message, I just want to check!

In a very deep corner of his heart, a small voice said, I just want to be sure he's not dead.

He shoved his boot back on quickly, before his mind had time to consider the pain this might cause. Gingerly, with exaggerated care, he climbed to his feet, resting all his weight on the uninjured leg. Eyes fixed grimly on the door in front of him, he took a deep breath and stepped forward. A shaft of pain speared upward from the knee, but it held. Two more steps took him out the door, where, after a quick glance up and down to be certain the way was clear, he steered his way toward his chamber. It was impossible to avoid other students, but he strode forward without hesitation, forcing himself not to limp. He saw several curious glances slide downward to his bloodstained trouser leg, but he ignored them, silently thankful that he met none of his friends in the halls. When he arrived at his chamber, he keyed it open and stepped inside with one quick motion, and then leaned back on the door after it swished closed behind him.

A sense of wild relief possessed him as he gazed at the barren walls of his old, familiar chamber, but he knew it was a spurious feeling, not to be trusted. His situation was not a whit different now than it had been over in the storage compartment. It was just encased in more comfortable surroundings.

Now that he was here, he was almost reluctant to actually look at the datapad. Slowly, he walked to his worktable and lifted it off a lower shelf. His heart lurched raggedly as his eyes registered the rapidly blinking yellow light that signified stored messages. Eyes glittering with hope, he activated the message-retrieval.

"You have five messages," the 'pad intoned. "Proceed?"

"Yes!"

"Message one: timecode 0950. Sender: Wol G'Det. Message: Hey Obi-Wan! Are you really back? What happened. . ."

"Next," Obi-Wan interrupted.

"Message two: timecode 1125. Sender: Garen Mulft. Message: Obi-Wan, do you want to drill with us this afternoon? Send me a 'pad message if you do."

"Next."

"Message three: timecode 1243. Sender: A'ali Cek. Message: Good afternoon, Obi-Wan Kenobi. At your convenience this afternoon, the Council members would like to speak with you. Please respond as soon as possible."

Obi-Wan felt his throat clench with apprehension. The Council! Had they heard about his fight with Bruck yesterday? Were they sending him on some other agricultural exile?

Impatiently he shook his head, ruthlessly flinging yesterday's fears away. I can't think about that right now, he thought grimly. One small part of his mind demanded that he answer the Council's summons at once, but the rest of him resolutely turned away from it. He cleared his throat and said firmly, "Next."

"Message four: timecode 1311. Sender: Medic Droid 4-TX. Message: Records indicate that you were treated yesterday for a knee injury. You are reminded that the progress of your healing should be checked by medical personnel sometime in the next 24 hours."

Obi-Wan smiled. Right. If they only knew. "Next."

"Message five: timecode 1856. Sender: An old friend."

What? Obi-Wan thought.

"Message: Hello, little Padawan."

A cold foreboding seized him. Xanatos' voice poured unimpeded from the 'pad's tiny voder.

"I'm pleased to have made the acquaintance of a charming friend of yours, one Bant Eerin. I'm afraid she isn't as pleased to have met me, but then, she was really expecting to find you down here, so her disappointment is understandable. Misguided, but understandable.. So I suggest you hurry right back down here and cheer your friend up. We await you impatiently."

His knuckles grew white as he clenched the datapad, eyes bleak. With an incoherent exclamation, he flung the 'pad onto his sleepcouch, and his hand went to his lightsaber as if it were a talisman, his thumb stroking it.

Xanatos, he thought. You _will_ let her go. You want me to come? I'm coming!

But that furious thought jolted him with its inconsistency. He stopped before the door and rested his clenched fists against it, considering what he knew of Xanatos and his methods.

Why would he want me to come, when he's spent all this effort trying to get me to go, to approach the Council and tell them he's here? Why? Why send me a message like that? He's trying to make me angry, to make me scared for her.

Almost unconsciously, he nodded, leaning forward to rest his brow on his fists.

Yes, he thought. That's it. He knows I'm injured. He knows I can't really fight him, and he knows that _I_ know that. It's the same thing as before. He wants me to run to the Council, shouting about Bant, shouting for help, and then they know he's here and his purpose is accomplished.

He straightened, his heart beating wildly. The deepest part of his spirit was convinced of the truth of his reasoning, but his logical mind was muttering and shuffling, and finally saying outright, what if you're wrong about this, Obi-Wan?

With a heroic effort, he ignored the siren call of logic.

And began to form a plan of attack.

* * *

In a sleek little ship hurtling toward Coruscant, a Jedi Master's hand strayed to his knee, rubbing it absently. Steely, abstracted eyes glanced over at the chronometer.

Three hours to go.


	12. Chapter 12

**Joint Strength Part Twelve**

As Obi-Wan slipped off his black gloves, he noticed that his hands were shaking.

Sure, he thought. Now, at the end of the match, I'm going to lose my focus.

He certainly hoped that the end was near. Many long minutes had passed while he had concocted his plan, prepared his equipment, and then gathered the necessary garments, with additional long pauses to avoid being noticed by anyone. He had begrudged every second, imagining Xanatos' growing anger, his treatment of Bant. A muscle twitched along the edge of his tight jaw as he ruthlessly put thoughts of his friend far away. He needed all his focus on the now.

Moving silently, he entered a small side corridor and knelt, ignoring a complaining twinge from his fragile knee as he placed the datapad he was carrying onto the cold floor. Only the ingrained self-discipline of a Jedi student prevented him from glancing repeatedly over his shoulder, his ears straining to hear any sound. He flinched slightly as a mocking chuckle drifted around the corner, its heavy malevolence diluted with distance.

Xanatos, he thought. If you hurt her, I'll. . .

No, he stopped himself. No, that was a vow of vengeance, infected with darkness. It would only weigh him down.

The necessity for absolute silence forced him to move slowly as he propped the 'pad against the wall, and adjusted its volume gradient to the highest level. His fingers hovered over the output control as he studied it intently, memorizing it, burning its mundane details into his brain. His hand closed into a fist above it. He would have to activate it with the Force.

I can do it, he thought. It's a simple thing. The distance is nothing.

He had no choice. The foundation of his entire plan rested on the output switch. There was little subtlety in this scheme.

And little chance for success either, the cool logical part of his brain said dryly.

Switch off! the rest of him responded, rather heatedly.

After a final intense glance at the control, he slipped away, out of the side corridor and into the main hall. With noiseless feet and a mostly imperceptible limp, he glided toward the cold murmur around the far corner.

* * *

Bant kept her eyes away from him.

She knew now that he was an enemy who delighted in fear and intimidation, who spoke ambiguous threats with a smoothly honed tongue. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing hope drowning in her eyes' growing resignation. Staring resolutely at the top edge of the open door, she allowed herself a small smile as his voice grew suddenly, fractionally more peevish.

"I fail to see what interest you find in that blank surface." His shadow swept over her as he paced.

Yes. He wanted to see her fear. She wouldn't let him.

"It's a pointless vigil, little Bant." His voice emphasized her name, just a touch. "If you're looking for rescue, you're looking in vain."

Maybe. Maybe not. She let her eyes slide down to study the growing bruise on her wrist. The binders were too tight. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that, either.

He was waiting for something; she could feel the waves of impatience rolling off him. Whatever it was, she wished devoutly for just the opposite to happen. She let the word circle soothingly in her troubled mind, focusing on it as if it were a meditation ritual.

Opposite. Opposite. Opposite.

"Xanatos!"

Bant's head jerked upward, her eyes going involuntarily to her captor. That was Obi-Wan's voice! The man's eyes flashed in recognition as his lips pulled back into a feral snarl.

"Xanatos!" Obi-Wan's shouted voice repeated. "You wanted me to come. Here I am."

"Of all the fools spread throughout the galaxy," Xanatos hissed. "that boy is surely the greatest!"

"You did tell him to come," Bant said, her voice ever so slightly mocking.

Xanatos whirled, hand raised with vicious intent. Her head jerked backward to avoid the blow, but his knuckles struck her across the cheekbone with devastating force. She crumpled into a small heap.

"Come, Xanatos," Obi-Wan shout echoed along the hall. "I'm waiting. This is the end!"

"Oh yes," the man said. "You're right about that."

As he strode through the door, he murmured, "You'll _have_ to report a mortal injury, little padawan . . ."

Bant stirred in his wake, pushing herself upright with shaking arms. The force of the blow had split the delicate skin covering the bone, and she felt blood oozing along the cut and running down her jawline. An unconscious tremor shuddered through her. Bant had never been struck in anger, not once in her entire life here at the Temple. It was an experience she wasn't eager to repeat.

She heard Xanatos' angry footsteps recede down the hall. Obi-Wan, she thought frantically, maybe you are a fool. . .

She was struggling to her feet, mouth set in a grim line, when a shadow slid through the door. She crouched at once into a defensive posture, prepared to block any attack, but the shadow threw up one arm in a vaguely familiar gesture, and hissed, "Bant! It's me!"

After a startled instant, she discerned Obi-Wan's stance in the shadow's silhoette. He was clad entirely in a darksuit, a black, light-absorbing garment worn for night exercises. All she could see of him were his eyes, glittering with anger as he registered the bloody cut on her face.

He said nothing, though, merely motioned urgently for her to follow.

Well, she thought, hurrying after him, you're not a fool after all.

Once out in the hall, Obi-Wan sprinted in the opposite direction that Xanatos had taken, his strides soundless but peculiarly ragged. Bant easily kept pace with him, despite being forced to run with her arms held awkwardly in front. Is he all right? she wondered. And then she nearly stumbled in amazement when she heard Obi-Wan's voice, far behind them, shouting, "Are you coming, Xanatos?"

They raced around another corner, and Obi-Wan took a moment to look back. Pushing back the suit's close-fitting hood, he grinned at her. "'Pad recorder" he whispered briefly. "Propped against a wall back there."

Bant gamely returned his grin. They heard the recorded voice shout again.

"Are you afraid of . . ."

The voice cut out with shocking abruptness. Obi-Wan's eyes flared. "He's found it. Come on, we have to get to the. . ."

From far away, Xanatos' voice halted them. "You're very clever! But you can't escape this floor without using the lift, and I'm closer to it than you. So what, I wonder, are you going to do now?"

The black anger in the voice was chilling. Bant's eyes were somber as Obi-Wan looked back to her "What _are_ we going to do?" she whispered slowly.

Obi-Wan stared into the space beyond her shoulder, thinking furiously.

"We've got to get the binders off." he murmured. "Then we'll split up. I'll distract him away from the lift, and you go up."

"You'll distract him how?" Bant's voice raised alarmingly.

"I don't know. The Force will guide me!" Obi-Wan pulled her past a junction of four halls into a nearby room, filled like all the others with storage containers and machinery. He settled into a kneeling posture on the floor, focusing on the binders clamped around her wrists. Bant knelt beside him.

"We have to forget Xanatos. Forget everything, except the binders."

Bant squared her shoulders. "Yes." She reached over awkwardly and grasped his hand. "We can do it." It sounded more like a plea than a statement, but Obi-Wan nodded in agreement, letting out his breath in an explosive huff.

"OK, here we go," he said, closing his eyes. He felt the Force whirling within him, its power untapped and uncontrolled. Slowly, he spread out his free hand toward Bant's wrists, his fingers hovering over the metal binders, but not touching them. In his mind he saw them clearly, dull cold steel contrasting cruelly with Bant's warm coral skin. He saw the painful reddening where the binders dug into her wrists, the discolored bruising along the top of her arm. He felt a surge of anger at this callous treatment of his gentle friend, and spent many long moments putting the anger away. He focused on the binders, the binders, the Force. . .

Beside him, he felt a sudden wave of powerful exhilaration as Bant let out her breath with a sigh and heard the clink as the binders dropped to the polished floor.

He opened his eyes to find Bant smiling.

"I knew we could do it." She climbed to her feet, kicked the binders away, and then looked immediately horror-stricken as they clattered noisily across the floor. Watching them slide beneath a storage barrel, Obi-Wan said, "Well, we needed to hide them anyway. . ."

Then his face grew stony as he whispered, "Come on. I know Xanatos. . ."

"And he knows you!" Bant interrupted. "How. . . "

"I'll tell you everything later, I promise! Look, he's probably not even really guarding the lift. He's looking for us, and we don't want to be found."

Bant bit her lip. "Split up, then?"

"Split up." Obi-Wan nodded in agreement, then paused, looking up at the vent cover above their heads and then down at his small-statured friend. "If we remove the cover, he might find it and think we've gone up the vents."

Bant tipped her head back as well. "Well," she whispered, "why don't we?"

"Why don't we what?"

"Go up the shaft. He won't expect it."

"Yes, he will. We don't want to do what he's expecting."

"Why would he?"

"Well, . . .I've set a precedent." He gestured upward. "You want to have the honor?" With most of her usual grace, Bant climbed onto Obi-Wan's shoulders, and removed the vent cover, careful to make no sound. She handed it down to him, and gripped the edge of the shaft, dangling while he laid it aside. As he reached up to help her down, a glint of metal on her utility belt caught his eye. It was her lightsaber clip, and it was empty. She was unarmed.

That complicates things, he thought, as he and Bant stood gazing rather uncertainly at each other.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" she asked.

"No. But it's the only thing I can think of."

"Well, then, what shall I do when I get out of here?"

Obi-Wan's face was suddenly gaunt with uncertainty. "I don't know. I haven't told anyone anything because I. . .I had a strong feeling that by doing that I was falling into his trap. I can't decide for you. You have to do what you think is right. All I know is that he _wants_ everyone to know he's here."

Bant shook her head. "That doesn't make any sense, but . . .I trust you. I won't alert the whole Council or anything." Her face grew suddenly grim. "But, Obi-Wan, listen to me. There's more to this than just a dark enemy down here. When he wanted to send you that message, he asked for my name, and threatened me with . . .I don't know what. . .to see if I'd give it."

Obi-Wan's hands clenched into fists. "That's how you got that cut."

She touched her face with the back of her hand. "This? No, that was later. But listen, all those threats were just for. . .fun. . .I guess, to watch my fear, because, when I wouldn't tell him, he got out a datapad and jacked right into the records nodes. Since I'm the only female Calamarian student in the Temple, it took him about three seconds to find my name. . ."

When Obi-Wan didn't immediately react, she hissed urgently, "Don't you see? Somehow he's got access to restricted nodes! Restricted! Only the Masters can get in there! How did he do it? And how did he get into the Temple in the first place?"

Obi-Wan nodded and looked down at her with bleak eyes. "You think he has a contact here."

"Yes! How else could he. . ."

She silenced abruptly as they both became aware of footsteps moving toward them in the hall outside, heavy footfalls, meant to be heard, to cause fear, to provoke movement.

Bant's hand went to her mouth, eyes wide. Obi-Wan froze, every sense stretching outward. The steps grew closer, and then abruptly faded.

"He turned down another hall." Bant whispered.

Straightening his shoulders, Obi-Wan made a decision, and reached to his belt. He unhooked his lightsaber and handed it toward her, whispering, "Take this."

"What?" she hissed back. "I'm not taking your saber! Are you insane?"

"Take it! You have to get out of here, and find someone, someone discreet, to tell about him jacking into the nodes! You need a weapon, just in case. Take it!"

Bant didn't move. "What are you going to do?"

Obi-Wan looked around absently. "I'll distract him and lead him away, then hide."

"You swear? You'll hide? You won't fight him?"

"I'll try not to." He attempted a cavalier grin, with only partial success, and it quickly melted away. "Please, just take it and go!"

Eyes reluctant, Bant took the lightsaber. She and Obi-Wan exchanged a grim, shaky glance, and stepped through the door together. The hall was empty, except for a miasma of uncertainty and menace. Probably, Obi-Wan thought wryly, erupting from his own jittery thoughts. Silently, he motioned up the hall, angling his hand right, left, and then left again, to show Bant where she would find the lift. Her eyes fastened intently on him, she nodded her understanding, and slipped away. He watched her for only a moment, and then turned his back and walked toward the hall junction, following the memory of heavy footsteps.

* * *

Garen trudged wearily toward the south garden doors. Twilight had long since fallen, the dark now shading into the velvety charcoal tones of imminent night. Far above his head, the unceasing flow of Coruscant traffic wended geometrically among the buildings, and the shaded lightpoles that illuminated the gardens created multiple shadows of his weary form. A'ali's two-hour deadline had long since passed; he knew, from checking with her, that she had found no trace of Obi-Wan.

And why should we? he thought. We based this whole search on the word of Bruck Chun!

A tall, slender shadow detached itself from the dim recesses of the south doors, and strode toward him. As she drew nearer, into the fountain of light spilling from a nearby lightpole, he saw that her face was bemused.

"I've just completed a number of interesting conversations," she said. "Your friend called and said his search was fruitless and he had 'another appointment'. . ."

Garen wrinkled his brow. "What possible appointment could Reeft have?"

A'ali smiled slightly. "Ah, no. I meant the other boy, Bruck."

"Oh." Garen's voice was toneless.

A'ali's smile grew momentarily wider, and then faded. "My Master had instructed one of the resident Knights to search all the student sections. No trace of Obi-Wan."

So she didn't trust Bruck fully, Garen thought vaguely, in the small corner of his mind not consumed with worry.

"And," A'ali continued, "Reeft called to say he was at the main doors, having finished an equally unsatisfying search. I told him to stay there, and we would meet him. We'll have to take a shuttle and sweep outside the Temple grounds."

Quickly they walked toward the front of the great building, silence shrouding them as Garen's face grew increasingly frustrated. Finally, he burst out, "I just. . .I don't believe that Obi-Wan would leave the Temple without telling someone."

A'ali nodded. "Yes, I see that. But we must look for him somewhere. And this seems to be the next course of action."

When they rounded the corner, they could see the imposing main doors, flooded with warm light. Reeft sat on the broad steps, his forlorn form dwarfed by the huge vertical planes soaring above him. They quickened their steps, and Reeft stood to greet them with an indifferent bow. His heart obviously wasn't in it.

"Where could he be?" he said as they joined him. "and what about Bant? You know, we kind of forgot about her, but we haven't really seen her all day either."

"Bant? The Calamarian girl?" A'ali's brow furrowed. "Is she a friend of. . ."

She broke off suddenly and her eyes widened as she stared over Garen's shoulder. Startled, he glanced at Reeft, saw his friend's jaw begin to sag slightly, and whirled around.

Moving toward them at an almost-run, that should have looked ridiculous but somehow didn't, was a man unlike any Garen had ever seen. Short, barrel-chested, muscular, bare torso slashed with recent cuts, and oufitted with a green leather bandolier loaded with shining daggers. He looked like a warrior from an ancient mythos, completely incongruous in Coruscant's metallic canyons. At his feet, body leaping and spinning with joyful abandon, a lithe little creature dodged to and fro, obviously making a game of avoiding his steps.

And just behind strode the Jedi Master Qui-Gon Jinn, his hood thrown back by the wind of his own swift passage, his face tight, his eyes boring straight ahead with implacable purpose. His cloak billowed behind him like the wake of a great ship, and his lightsaber swung in perfect rhythm with his long strides, catching the glowing light and flashing it back, a soundless signal.

The two men and the creature swept past them without pause, though the Jedi Master gave each a crisp nod.

With one accord, A'ali and the two boys pivoted to watch them enter the huge main doors. After a moment, Reeft asked, voice a bit dazed, "Who was that?"

"Master Qui-Gon Jinn," A'ali answered absently.

"I know _that_. I meant the. . .other one."

A'ali shook her head. "I haven't the faintest idea." She frowned, searching the Force within her, and then said slowly, "They're going to the Council. Come, we're going as well."

"But what about Obi-Wan?" Garen cried.

"I don't know! But can't you feel the Force pulling us? Come!"


	13. Chapter 13

**Joint Strength Part Thirteen**

I am the hunter _and _ the prey, Obi-Wan thought.

A prickling sensation crawled along the back of his neck, but, despite stretching out with all his skill, he could sense nothing of Xanatos. It was as if the enemy had pulled a dark cloak around himself and disappeared in a swirl of smoke like a holovid magician.

Obi-Wan stepped slowly forward through air thick with menace, his mind circling skittishly around unavoidable questions. Was Xanatos masking himself somehow, concealing his presence in the Force? Obi-Wan clearly remembered one of the Masters teaching that masking was a skill mined from the depths of the Dark Side, rooted in deception and malice. And if Xanatos was masking himself, how would Obi-Wan find him, and distract him from Bant? He could be anywhere! He could be right behind. . .

Almost of its own volition, his head turned to glance back over his shoulder. Nothing there.

The mazed hallways led him in disorienting circles. He pushed away disconcerting thoughts of Xanatos' intimate acquaintance with the Dark Side, trying to focus instead on burying his own emotions deeply within, covering them with a thin veneer of shaky serenity. He would try to keep his own presence in the Force as subtle as possible.

He glided around a corner and stopped short, staring down the deserted hall. The lift door! But surely the lift was two corridors over. Wasn't it? He must have become more disoriented than he had realized, and the knowledge that he was mistaken in his position rocked his confidence.

And where was Bant? Had she already gotten this far, and taken the lift up?

He shook his head slightly, and straightened his shoulders No, she probably hadn't come here yet. She had gone around the long way; she was moving very cautiously. And, he thought suddenly, perhaps he had been mistaken, too, in the directions he had signaled to her. He might have misjudged the lift's location even then. He must get away from this corridor, at once, and then broadcast his presence somehow, to draw the enemy's attention.

Silently, he slipped to the nearest junction, rounding the corner into another hall, and paused, one knee lifted for the next step. Faintly, at the very edge of his senses, he detected footfalls, the soft steps of someone determined not to be heard. Obi-Wan grimaced; he moved to intercept.

The footsteps were at the far end, coming along the hallway perpendicular to this one. Pressing himself along the wall, he slid forward, his mind rapidly devising an impromptu plan: he would leap around the corner, ram the startled enemy backwards with a blow to the chin, and then turn and run like. . . He was at the corner, no more time for thought. He sensed the other presence clearly, only a few meters away. Gathering the Force, he launched himself.

* * *

Qui-Gon flung the ponderous main doors open with a sweep of his hand, letting the Force bear their weight. He saw Molu shoot a bemused glance his way, as the two of them strode into the Temple, but his attention was focused solely on his mental search for any sign of his apprentice.

He hadn't foreseen this.

When their sleek blue ship had pierced Coruscant's atmosphere, he had immediately reached for his comlink, fighting a sense of premature relief. He would warn Obi-Wan of Xanatos' threat, instruct him to go to his chamber and refuse to leave it for any reason, reassure himself that the boy was unharmed. . .

But the only response had been silence. Two more attempts produced only two more minutes of empty air. Contacting Obi-Wan's datapad netted nothing, not even a routine recorded greeting. A memory struck him like a stormgale: himself standing half-crouched in the Trikan dark, heart thudding with the burden of Obi-Wan's fear. His jaw had tightened noticeably.

His next action was to contact the Council and ask them to convene, despite the late hour. The end of that conversation replayed itself uneasily in his brain:

"Obi-Wan Kenobi?" Master Yareal's voice had been puzzled. "Master Qui-Gon, it is very strange indeed that you should inquire about that particular student."

"Why?" A chill skittering across his heart

"Obi-Wan Kenobi is missing. The parties searching for him have been unsuccessful thus far."

'Unsuccessful.' As he and the general entered the Temple's great Entrance Hall, its soaring ceiling dwarfing even Qui-Gon's tall frame, he thrust that word away with deliberate effort, and sought for Obi-Wan.

The Force was moving, but he could sense nothing specific, as if the boy had cloaked himself in layers of opaque fog. Even the echoes of physical pain had faded, but this caused Qui-Gon added disquiet rather than bringing him comfort. Of the many possible reasons for Obi-Wan's pain to have disappeared, Qui-Gon preferred not to dwell on most of them.

His head was bent slightly under the weight of his efforts. Molu looked over at him, and then gazed upward for a moment. "Great builders, your people, but overly fond of metal, I think."

Qui-Gon glanced up as well, as he gestured toward the main lift at the far end of the Hall. The ghostly apparition of reflected light gleamed off the polished ceiling, beautiful and very different from Triki's wood and stone.

"Depends upon your point of view," he answered, leading the general into the lift. As they turned to face the door, pausing to let the _sinna_ scramble in, he caught a brief glimpse of the main doors swinging open again, and three figures slipping through it. The door slid shut.

"Students Quarters," he said quickly, before the lift had time to inquire. Molu's brows arched. "We're not going to your Council?'

"No, _we_ are not." Qui-Gon looked over at him, mouth softening into a small smile for the first time in many hours. "You are, my friend."

The general blinked. Slowly he said, "I would think, from the message you sent, that they will be expecting you."

"Expectation is the threshold of disappointment." Qui-Gon said, his voice pitched to indicate a familiar quotation.

Molu absorbed the words, nodded once crisply, and said, "Exactly."

Qui-Gon shook his head. "No, they won't be disappointed. Surprised, perhaps. . ."

Molu's jaw tightened. "My purpose in coming here was not to give your Council an interesting surprise."

The smile slipped from Qui-Gon's eyes. "Forgive me, my friend. I didn't intend to make light of your coming. But the Council must be informed of Xanatos' threat, and the burden of telling them falls on you, because I must find Obi-Wan. At once."

"Yes, I see that." Molu squatted down, holding out his arm for the _sinna_ to climb. As the creature settled itself in its customary position on his shoulder, he straightened and asked, "But will they accept the testimony of a _sinna_?"

Qui-Gon's eyes were shadowed. "They will have to."

* * *

A'ali's sure stride hesitated as the lift door closed on the Jedi Master and his strange companion. But the impetus of the Force was strongly upon her, and she broke into a smooth run, long steps erasing the distance to the lift in a few quick moments. Garen and Reeft scrambled to follow.

She stepped into the neighboring lift, and barely waited for the two boys to tumble in after her, before wheeling to face the lift's voder panel and saying, "Authorization 4563, Tel Udrunn."

"Authorization confirmed. Inquiry?"

"What is the destination of lift. .." she paused for a moment to visualize the lift bank. "lift 4."

"Lift 4 is instructed to stop at the Students Quarters."

"Take us there as well."

As the lift shot upwards, Garen said, a bit doubtfully, "I thought you said they were going to the Council."

A'ali's face was slightly bemused. "I thought that was what the Force was telling me."

"No vision is flawless." Reeft intoned, quoting a Jedi saying currently much in use by his teachers.

"As you say," A'ali tilted her head, running her thumb musingly along her jaw. "Why would they be going to the student's quarters?"

"And why are we going after them?" Garen heard the petulance in his voice, swallowed it and tried to sound humble instead. "Um, I mean, what will we say when we catch up with them? 'The Force told us to follow'?"

A'ali looked down at him, shoulders lifting in a small shrug.

"Of course," she said. "There's nothing else to say."

* * *

The lift emitted a subtle chime. Molu's feet were shifting nervously, and Qui-Gon reached over to grip his shoulder. "You've seen Xanatos' evil firsthand, General. You'll make them see it, too."

Molu let out an explosive breath. "Honor demands that I try."

Qui-Gon nodded once, and strode out of the lift. As the doors closed behind him, he drew in a deep breath , reviewing the thought process that had brought him here. When a Jedi searches, he follows a simple principle: begin at the center. What had been Obi-Wan's center, here at the Temple? Despite the relationship that had grown between them in the last few days, he did not know Obi-Wan well enough to predict his actions. That would come in time, and he would welcome the increased familiarity, but for now, the newness of their partnership hampered his ability to sense his location. Starting with the boy's chamber seemed the best course. Surely the room was the center of his life here.

Approaching the door, he entertained a faint hope that it would open to reveal Obi-Wan safe inside, sitting cross-legged on the sleep-coach, expressive face lighting with welcome. But this vision drained away as he activated the door and saw only a dark, empty chamber.

Once inside, he was shocked by the barrenness. He had instructed Obi-Wan to vacate this room, but somehow the aggressive emptiness seemed wrong. He noted a cloak hanging beside the door, and a carelessly folded set of clothing on the shelf beside it, but otherwise the room was completely bereft.

No, not completely, he thought, as his eye fell on a small pile of fragments lying almost ritualistically in the center of the table. He walked over and studied them thoughtfully. One hand stroked his beard, and the shadow in his eyes deepened. What had happened here?

Suddenly he became aware of rapidly approaching footsteps, and a young voice hissing, "What's he doing in Obi-Wan's room?"

He turned to see a Padawan and two students clustered outside the door, the same Padawan and students he had passed at the main doors. After a fractional pause, he recalled the name: A'ali Cek, Padawan to one of the senior Council members.

"Hello," he said, brows raised in mild surprise.

A'ali bowed quickly. "Master Qui-Gon. We saw you arrive, and the Force prompted us to follow."

Qui-Gon frowned. "I see." Suddenly the frown deepened. "May I ask what were you doing out on the front plaza?"

"We were searching for a student who is missing."

"Obi-Wan."

The three before him nodded as one, their surprise obvious though their faces remained composed.

"Why search outside the Temple?"

"A fellow student saw him leave. We covered the grounds with no success, and were about to broaden our boundaries when we encountered you."

Obi-Wan left the Temple? Alone? Qui-Gon considered his knowledge, however sketchy, of the boy's character, and concluded quickly that he would indeed do something so drastic if he felt the cause sufficient. A grim memory snaked through his mind : Obi-Wan crawling through the ventilation shafts of a transport ship to Bandomeer. Slowly he nodded. Obi-Wan was indeed willing to resort to unusual measures.

"I'll go out and continue the search." he said flatly.

"I must join you," A'ali said, waiting for Qui-Gon's short nod of acquiescence before falling into step beside him. "You two stay here."

In their wake, Garen and Reeft stared at each other. Garen said slowly, "Why does Qui-Gon Jinn care so much about finding Obi-Wan?"

* * *

Obi-Wan catapulted around the corner, fist cocked back like a piston, jaw clenched. And then his eyes widened in shock, and he pulled his blow back just in time. But he could not stop his momentum, and his flying leap carried him directly into the startled form of Bruck Chun, even as he tried to fling himself to the side.

The two boys landed in a tangle of arms and legs. Bruck's breath left him with the explosive force of a hulled freighter. Obi-Wan curled into himself, protecting his knee, and then jumped to his feet, gazing down at Bruck in consternation. Bruck was gasping, unable to speak, but the venom in his eyes was eloquent as he stared up at Obi-Wan, echoing the hate-filled shout he had flung at Obi-Wan's retreat into the lift earlier that day.

Obi-Wan returned the stare, feeling the familiar anger that Bruck provoked filling his gut with acidic bile. His hand strayed to his belt, and met only an empty saberclip.

And then he saw Bruck's eyes shift.

He whirled, bringing his fist up for a back-handed blow, but his wrist was caught in an iron grip and he found himself staring into Xanatos' lip-curled sneer.

In the sudden intense silence he heard Bruck coughing as he climbed to his feet, and his own hoarse breath. The cold light in Xanatos' eyes pinned him in place like a captured insect. The man's mouth stretched into a humorless smile, and then his eyes slid down to Obi-Wan's utility belt.

The eyes widened almost imperceptibly, and flared with unfathomable emotion. With shocking strength, his other hand came up and fastened around Obi-Wan's throat, thrusting him backward against the corridor's wall with an audible thunk. Black stars swirled across his vision. When they cleared he found Xanatos' face filling all his sight, as the man's voice grated out, "What have you done with your lightsaber?"

An infinite moment, consumed with a silent, wrenching clash of wills. Then, the eyes narrowed, becoming slits of dark certainty.

"You've given it to the little girl." With his other hand, he backhanded Obi-Wan's face with such ferocious speed that Obi-Wan had no time to lift his arm and block it. Dimly, he heard the smooth voice hiss, "How chivalrous."

Xanatos gripped Obi-Wan's jaw viciously, forcing his head back against the unyielding wall, compounding by tenfold the lingering pain of the blow. His other hand pulled a vibro-shiv from his belt, and pressed the flat side of the blade against Obi-Wan's jugular vein.

To Bruck he said, "The Calamarian girl, Bant. She's down here somewhere. Go to the lift and lie in wait for her. Now."

Bruck's fingers were twisting nervously as he stared at the knife. Weakly he muttered, "I'm not sure about this. . ."

Xanatos' head slowly turned to aim the full force of his glittering eyes at Bruck's face.

"Not sure? You've come too far in all this to make such a claim. Go find the girl, and bring her here now, or I will make certain the Masters know exactly how it happened that Obi-Wan's possessions were destroyed and his lightsaber stolen. That would be the end of your residence here in the Temple, wouldn't it?"

Bruck stepped backward, jaw slightly slack, a thin skin of sickened realization congealing over his eyes. Xanatos smiled.

"Did you really think that any of this was about you, Bruck Chun? Go. Go!"

The last word's venomous force pushed Bruck back. He took one step and then two. With a final glance at the blade threatening Obi-Wan's throat, he turned and hurried away, shoulders straightening with resolution as he went.

Bant! thought Obi-Wan thickly. Must stop him. . .

He shifted violently, suddenly, trying to free himself, but Xanatos' grip held firm.

"Such a noble youth," he sneered, eyes bright with hatred.. "So determined to follow the ways of the Force, so eager to be a Jedi! So concerned for your little friend that you give her the lightsaber."

He twisted the knife, just enough to bring a thin line of welling blood under the jawline. "I know very well that you won't tell me where she's gone, just as I know that you think somewhere deep in your heart that _he_ will somehow return to salvage this whole situation." The blade turned fractionally further. Obi-Wan fought to keep from wincing.

"But he's not coming back, Obi-Wan. I'm so sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

Obi-Wan's heart convulsed nauseatingly. Xanatos shoved the shiv back in his belt and drew out a datapad, of a slim, sinuous design that Obi-Wan had never seen. Activating it with his thumb, he thrust it forward, holding the tiny screen before Obi-Wan's eyes. For a moment, only darkness glowed there, and then a starburst of static, and then images.

Trees.

A tiny circular house.

A large frame filling the doorway: Master Qui-Gon!

Qui-Gon turning sharply as if startled, head cocked slightly, listening.

And then an explosion so immense that the virulent light invaded Obi-Wan's squeezed-shut eyelids.

No! No! his heart was screaming. His body sagged against the wall. His eyes refused to open.

"Yes," murmured Xanatos, voice musing and contemplative. "Not so satisfying as a duel to the death with sabers flashing, but so much more foolproof."

The voice turned bitterly cold.

"Qui-Gon Jinn is dead. Dead, Obi-Wan. He's not coming back."

A quick movement, and the knife's edge once again pressed coldly against his throat.

"And since you've given away your saber, there's nothing to stop me from killing you as well."

* * *

The lift's chime signaled their approaching destination. A'ali smiled. "The Entrance Hall again. Do you feel a recurring pattern here?"

No answer. A'ali looked up to see Qui-Gon frozen in a posture of absolute attention. A listening posture.

"Master Qui-Gon?"

In less than a moment, as the lift slid to a stop and A'ali spoke the Jedi Master's name with a questioning upward inflection, Qui-Gon Jinn reached out with the Force and sent the lift hurtling downward.

"Master Qui-Gon!"

One large hand gripped her elbow, steadying her. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to startle you."

"What are we doing?"

Qui-Gon glanced at her. A small smile hovered on the edges of his mouth, but his eyes were frighteningly bleak as he answered, "We're going down."


	14. Chapter 14

**Joint Strength Part Fourteen**

Hidden in the deep shadow pooling behind a large storage unit, Bant studied the lift door twenty meters away.

The corridor was utterly silent, yet she did not enter it. She didn't trust the stillness; the hours spent with her dark captor had taught her well the devious subtleties of his mind. The deserted corridor, the unguarded lift: it was all too easy. Her hand strayed to the lightsaber clipped at her hip, and tightened over the hilt until the knuckles turned pale cream against her vivid coral skin.

Too easy.

But every second spent here was one that led Obi-Wan closer to confrontation with the enemy, somewhere in this maze of hallways. Despite her suspicions, she could no longer delay.

She squared her shoulders and melted out of the shadow, moving along the wall with extreme care, eyes fixed firmly on the lift, senses seeking danger in every direction. She heard the footsteps a split second before Bruck Chun slipped out of a side corridor opposite the lift door. He saw her at once, his eyes sparking with quick surprise that faded into a satisfied glint. An uneasy tingle slithered down the back of her neck.

For a moment, she stared back at him, wondering at his sudden presence. Then, she saw his eyes narrow with dark purpose, and he shifted his position to block her access to the lift. She knew, without questioning the knowledge, that he presented a formidable obstacle.

With a slight lifting of her chin, she fired the opening salvo.

"Bruck," she said, "Don't interfere with me. I'm taking the lift up. Now."

"No," Bruck shook his head, mouth curling into a smirk. "Someone wants to meet you."

"They'll have to wait."

He didn't answer, his face hardening. Bant centered herself inwardly, and stepped toward him, mouth pulled into a determined line.

I'm leaving even if I have to climb over you to do it, she thought, her gaze dueling fiercely with his.

Suddenly he leaped forward, reaching for her sword arm with one hand and drawing his saber with the other. With a swift movement, she swerved aside and unhooked Obi-Wan's lightsaber from her belt. Bruck snatched at it violently, and she countered by seizing his wrist, pushing his arm upward and ducking under it. Bruck whirled and they faced each other, just out of reach, inactivated lightsabers held at ready.

And then Bruck ignited his weapon.

"You'd better just come with me," he hissed. "It's easier."

Bant slid back a halfstep, eyes wide and startled, thumb hovering over the activator of Obi-Wan's saber.

"You're drawing saber on a fellow student? What's the matter with you?" Slowly, she shook her head. "I'm not interested in 'easy'. I'm getting into that lift, whether it's easy or not."

She feinted forward, as if taking a step, and then, as he lunged toward her, she darted around his larger figure like a snubfighter evading a battle cruiser. He pivoted sharply, flinging out his free hand and catching the back of her tunic. He jerked at it with all his strength; she stumbled back, and then fell. He jumped backward to avoid her falling body, and met the unyielding wall with a solid thunk, the impact causing him to lurch forward again and plant a large foot directly on one of her bruised wrists. She cried out, and flinched away, pulling her arm from under his foot and rolling into a sitting position, cradling her wrist with her free hand as he stumbled again toward the lift door.

Which gave a gentle chime and swished open.

The empty opening was instantly filled with a large figure that somehow dominated the entire corridor. Bruck's eyes widened in panicked surprise, and he swung his lightsaber sideways to avoid striking the man before him, just as the man reached out to catch him. With a sizzling crunch, the tip of the blade punctured the wall . An explosive pop echoed down the corridor, and a plume of incandescent sparks arched out from the point of impact while the lift shuddered slightly, its lights flickering off to leave the hallway bathed only in the ceiling's customary dim glow. The sparking wall threw garish shadows across the tall man and the two students, who stared at one another in a tableau of mutual amazement.

And then the man turned quickly to assess the danger posed by the sparking wall, and a Padawan appeared from behind him. After one startled glance at the scene before her, she bent forward to help Bant to her feet.

Bruck felt a suffocating pressure squeezing his chest as he stared at the man. Qui-Gon Jinn! He _had_ returned, just as Morran had said. Perhaps that meant that what Morran had told him along was true! But. . . those threats, a moment ago in the corridor. . .No, no, that must have been a trick. Morran had said those things just to conceal their friendship from Obi-Wan. Yes, that must be it. Obi-Wan. . .

An image of a shiv pressed to a defenseless throat thrust itself to the fore of his harried thoughts, but he pushed it away savagely, focusing instead on Bant as she accepted A'ali's grip and climbed to her feet. What was she going to say? How was he going to explain what had just happened? How to excuse the ignited saber? What to say. . .?

A'ali was already gazing at him inquiringly, and Bant's mouth was opening to speak. The Jedi Master turned from his inspection of the wall and fixed an intense gaze on Bant's face. . .

Distract them! Bruck's mind commanded. And his mouth obeyed, blurting out the first thought that came to him.

"We've got to save Obi-Wan!'

The three facing him instantly stiffened to acute alertness. Qui-Gon Jinn leaned forward and grasped Bruck's shoulders.

"Where is he?"

Ignoring Bant's incredulous eyes, Bruck focused on sounding absolutely sincere. "I don't know! Down here somewhere. He's gotten himself in trouble. . ."

"What's happened?"

Bant wheeled to face the Master, her expression turning urgent.

"Sir, there's a man down here, an evil man. He's got access to the Temple, and to the computer core, and he's dangerous. . ."

"A man dressed in black, black hair, blue eyes, tall. . ."

"Yes!" Bant stared at him, startled. "You know him too?"

"Too?"

"Yes. Obi-Wan, he knows him. He's trying to distract him so I can get away. . ."

Her voice trailed off as an iron grimness drained the life from the strong face before her. Before she could speak again, he was talking rapidly.

"Listen carefully. You must get out of here, now, but you can't take this lift. The lightsaber damaged the power cable to the lift controls; it's not going to function. Find a way off this floor, and go to the Council Chamber. There's a man there, a stranger. You'll see what I mean. Tell him what you've told me, and tell the Council. He will help you communicate the urgency of this to them." He flicked a glance at Bruck. "You go with her, and help her."

Bruck's eyes wavered.

"But he. . ." Bant began, and never finished. From far away came the faint sound of a muffled crash, and a muted groaning cry.

"Obi-Wan!" Bant cried, lunging forward. But a strong hand caught her arm and she dragged her anguished gaze to the Jedi Master's face.

"No," he said. "You must do as I said. Find a way off this floor. Go to the Council."

Bant swallowed, her face white, and nodded. "We'll find a way."

The grip on her arm tightened momentarily. "And I will find Obi-Wan."

Then he made a quick sideways gesture to A'ali, which sent her instantly running down the left corridor. The Jedi Master ran swiftly to the right, leaving Bant and Bruck staring uncomfortably at one another. With the tip of one finger, Bant stroked Obi-Wan's lightsaber.

* * *

It was not completely unheard of for the Jedi Council to be summoned late in the evening to hear the report of a Knight, but it was sufficiently unusual that the twelve members stood in a uneven knot in the center of the room rather than taking their accustomed seats. The message from Qui-Gon Jinn had been even more terse than usual, and much of the murmured conversation humming in the air focused on that Knight and various implications of his previous mission to Bandomeer. None of them could foresee the motivation behind the message they had received.

The sound of the lift's door opening out in the passage sent most of them to their seats, where they settled themselves just as the door slid aside, and a man entered the room, followed closely by a slim creature who took one look at the frankly staring Jedi Masters, sat up on its haunches, and cocked its head at them with mammalian impudence.

The Councilors had been expecting Qui-Gon Jinn. This was most certainly not he.

For a tense moment, General Molu of Triki and the twelve members of the Jedi Council regarded one another in stony silence, each taking the other's measure.

The general broke the impasse by bowing swiftly, wrists crossed before his face.

"Esteemed Jedi," he said, "I bring news from Qui-Gon Jinn, regarding an old enemy."

Master Yoda leaned forward slightly, ears raised. "An enemy of Qui-Gon's?"

Molu stretched out a closed fist. "My enemy as well."

He swept the room with his eyes, gauging their reaction as he said. "His name is Xanatos."

* * *

Obi-Wan sagged against the wall. He heard Xanatos' hissing words, he felt the knife's edge kissing his skin with a faint edge of pain. But these things passed unheeded into the whirling vortex of his mind, completely consumed by the image of a bright explosion. He heard and felt nothing but the horrifying reverberations of that blast.

Master Qui-Gon. . .dead!

It couldn't be true! No, no, no. . .

And then a faint pop sounded, from far away, and his Force-heightened instincts felt Xanatos' attention waver for a tiny breadth of a second. Mindlessly, for thought was still lost in the explosion, Obi-Wan twisted his head away from the knife and slammed his palm upward into his enemy's chin.

With a sharp grunt, Xanatos stumbled backward. For an instant, their two gazes drilled into one another, Obi-Wan's eyes glazed with horrified sorrow, and Xanatos' with volcanic fury, and then Obi-Wan leaped to the side and opened the nearest door with an outflung push of the Force. He dashed through it, his grief-blinded eyes taking in a wavering glimpse of a short passageway abutted with containment doors before he turned, hand outstretched, to close the door behind him.

It slid, perhaps a quarter of a meter, and stopped with a jerk, shuddering.

As if someone else was trying to hold it open with a determination equal to his own desire to close it.

He felt the dark Force of Xanatos' power twisting and curling around the edge of the door, even as his ears detected the faint scrape of his enemy climbing to his feet out in the hall. Obi-Wan hunched his shoulders, his arm shaking with effort as he directed the Force, willing the door to break free and close.

And suddenly the opening was filled with Xanatos' tall form, thrusting his hand out with malevolent intent. The Dark tendrils, augmented by their wielder's blazing rage, seized Obi-Wan's body and flung him backward; he struck one of the containment doors with a horrific crash, and his right knee smashed awkwardly against the canted corner of the door frame. A hot explosion of raw, familiar pain forced itself out of his mouth in a hoarse cry.

He fell heavily. But he instantly pushed his back against the door and used it to lever himself upward, his eyes locked on the dark figure stalking toward him. There was no time to do anything; yet a Force outside himself shook him, and he slapped his hand against the controls of the containment door, which slid aside with astonishing speed. Obi-Wan saw Xanatos leaping forward, but he thrust himself through the doorway with his left leg and pounded the controls on the other side with his fist. The door slammed shut with the enemy still two strides away.

He knew he had acquired only a second or two. He used the wall to gain his footing, putting all his weight on the left leg, arm braced against the wall, and hopped awkwardly forward through the containment cell and out the door, twin to the one he had just entered, the door behind him that was even now sliding open. He punched the controls on this door, too, with a fleeting thought that it would take Xanatos at least a few moments to locate the controls on that side. Those few moments were all he had.

His mind was vibrating with a cacophony of pain: the strident echoes of the image on the 'pad and the discordant countermelody in his re-injured knee. His eyes were dulled, almost insensate, as he took another hop, and realized that suddenly he was surrounded by space. A huge soaring void above and below, contained within the gigantic cylinder of the Temple's main power conduit.

With a quick look behind as he continued his pained hops, he saw that he had entered through a sort of covered catwalk, and now he had passed out from under the canopy. With no more wall to brace against, he reached forward to grasp a metal railing, its thin tubing his only barrier against the void around him. A quick glance down sent a wave of vertigo rippling through him; below, perhaps fifty meters or so, a series of immense blades turned slowly, creating the cold breeze that swept upward through the conduit. Above, the thick cables and junctions receded into a black infinity, threaded here and there with additional walkways and access bridges.

Two more hops, and he heard the door back under the overhang swish open, and then closed. Silently, he pressed himself against the railing, taking more weight on his arm and wrist as he pushed himself forward. He knew his darksuit would make him difficult to see in this dim light, but he also knew that Xanatos had only to follow the catwalk to find him.

Nowhere to go, he thought, and no legs to go there with.

And then he heard the door slide aside once more.

Three quick, firm footsteps under the shadow of the catwalk's canopy, and then a short indrawn breath, not quite a gasp.

A long silence.

Suddenly, Xanatos' voice, sounding shockingly loud .

"Hello, A'ali. I haven't seen you since you were. . .let's see, eighteen, perhaps?" A low, glissading laugh. "Your braid's gotten longer."

"Xanatos," a woman's voice, expressionless. "What are you doing here? Where is Obi-Wan Kenobi?"

Obi-Wan took one hop back, toward the voices, and stopped again as Xanatos' voice said coldly, "That's the only greeting you have for me, a former fellow Padawan? Well, if the boy's your only concern, maybe you'd like to join him. I believe he's right out here."

Two figures stepped out of the shadow. Obi-Wan vaguely recognized the woman, one of the older Padawans in the Temple. Her eyes sought his, silently assessing his condition. He could almost see her focus slip from Xanatos to himself and a shudder of warning shook him, a shout bubbling in his throat. . .

Too late.

As she took a half-step toward him, Xanatos kicked one foot from under her, caught her arm as she flung it out for balance, and flipped her off the catwalk.

"No!" Obi-Wan shouted, horror clawing at his heart. He pushed off the railing and caught the opposite one, risking a desperate glance downward even as he heard the harsh clang of her body striking metal. His eyes focused almost unwillingly and then he nearly choked on a spurt of relief as he saw her, not in amongst the huge blades, but crumpled on a lower catwalk four or five meters below. The relief died quickly; she lay absolutely still.

Steps on the catwalk, stalking him.

He looked up warily, watching Xanatos walk toward him with a numb detachment.

"Going to throw me over, too?" he asked. "That's kind of repetitive, isn't it, even for you?"

Xanatos shook his head. Eyes glittering, he stopped a pace away, and stood regarding Obi-Wan.

"So controlled," he murmured. "Accepting the pain of it all, are you? Your leg, the scene you just witnessed, Qui-Gon's death? Shielding your emotions so I don't detect your pain and fear? Such an apt student of the Force."

He paused, but Obi-Wan said nothing. The mocking smile grew wider.

But in his heart, Xanatos felt the icy rage redouble as he looked into Obi-Wan's face. Rage at his obvious courage, his skill. He had so easily filled the position that Xanatos had been certain would be vacant forever, a shrine to his ability to cast an eternal shadow over his old Master.

He may have filled it, he thought. But it will be a very short apprenticeship.

Suddenly he reached down, and ignited his lightsaber.

"You've been a notable nuisance, young Kenobi," he said. "I won't miss you."

He lifted the saber to strike. Obi-Wan's reacted instinctively, gripping the railing, taking all his weight on his arms and kicking out with his left leg. His foot struck Xanatos' hand, sending the saber spinning away.

With a growl of inarticulate rage, Xanatos flung out his hand, calling the weapon back. His eyes were filled with murder; he reactivated the weapon.

"I wouldn't," a calm, cold voice said. "Your battle is with me."


	15. Chapter 15

**Joint Strength Part Fifteen**

Bant studied Bruck speculatively, comparing the boy she saw before her now to the one who had blocked her access to the lift just a few minutes ago. He stared back, a sheen of hot anger slicking his cheekbones under her measuring gaze.

"Master Jinn said to find a way off this floor," he said brusquely. "Let's get to it."

"I already know a way," she murmured, and pivoted on the ball of one foot. Without a backward glance, she ran lightly up the hall, and veered into the second cross-corridor. Swallowing a harsh epithet, Bruck glared after her, but his surface anger masked an underlying fear. What was she going to say when they reached the council chamber and made a report. Would she tell of his words and actions, of his drawn saber? For an instant, he hesitated, considering his options, weighing the temptation of letting her go and just brazening the whole thing out, or following her, finding a way to really help and thus make an excellent impression on Master Jinn. Finally, leashing his anger with visible effort, he set off down the hall after her.

She moved effortlessly through the maze of corridors, so confident of her destination that she ran full stride, with no need to pause and consider the next turn. Bruck's longer legs were the sole reason he was able to keep her in sight, and even then, he turned a final corner only just in time to see her slip into a darkened room.

Her head was tipped back, gauging the distance from the floor to an open ventilation shaft, when Bruck entered the room, eyes bright with irritation. She glanced at him for half a moment, and then turned back to the vent without a word, focusing intently on the task before her. His face darkened. Who did she think she was, this little Calamarian, to dismiss him so easily?

"Qui-Gon Jinn told me to help you," he growled.

"So he did." Her voice was soft and completely firm, like sueded steel. "But I think it would be better if I went alone."

She turned to him then, her silver eyes matching the metallic tone of her words. "You drew saber on me, Bruck. I'm not certain I can trust you to honor Master Jinn's command."

Bruck sputtered, trying urgently to summon up the proper amount of wounded indignation. "Don't trust me. . .How can you. . ."

Bant ignored him. Striding forward to stand under the vent, she said, "Don't follow me."

With a Force-aided leap, she grasped the edge of the shaft opening and propelled herself into it with a strong swimmer's kick.

Bruck's expression of injured innocence vanished as he listened to the soft sounds of her progress up the shaft. His eyes narrowed as his anger escaped its leash, and he moved to follow her. But then he stopped, pulling the emotion back in.

Best not to antagonize her, he thought. If she's angry, she might blurt out first thing that I . . .confronted her, there at the lift. Have to think of a good way to explain that first. Better let her go.

Better go find Morran.

* * *

The deep voice charged the molecules of the air, electrifying them with a heavy current of tension and hope. Obi-Wan's heart clenched, emitting a wave of joy so powerful it rocked him back against the railing. He was almost afraid to look, afraid of some trick perpetrated by his opponent's dark talents. But he saw Xanatos' gaze lift, and his body sway slightly back as his eyes widened. Abruptly then, Obi-Wan spun, knee crumpling helplessly beneath him so that he had to clutch the railing to stay upright.

There, on a catwalk hugging the concave wall five meters above them, Qui-Gon Jinn stood tall and still and indisputably alive.

Alive!

The 'pad recording must have been faked, Obi-Wan thought, wild relief making his hands tremble against the railing.

Qui-Gon's saber-sharp gaze was pinned on Xanatos, but the hardness melted instantaneously as his eyes shifted to Obi-Wan. A flash of shared emotion arced between them, a mutual gladness, though Qui-Gon's face grew darker as he considered Obi-Wan's hunched posture. A memory flared through him: the echo of someone else's searing pain.

"Are you all right?" he asked, glancing down to the clenched white knuckles of Obi-Wan's fist.

"Yes," Obi-Wan answered, although he clearly wasn't.

"How touching," Xanatos' murmur had lost its smooth edge. He felt the Force pulse between the master and apprentice, and knew that the balance of power in this situation had radically altered. His eyes narrowed.

"A reunion." His voice grew louder, more jagged. "A happy reunion between Master and Padawan. Somehow the Master has escaped Triki despite traps and taboos, and somehow the Padawan is still standing, despite his own clumsiness."

Xanatos stepped forward suddenly and seized Obi-Wan's arm, bringing his lightsaber around chest-high. Obi-Wan pressed himself flat against the railing to avoid the blade, his shoulders taut as he fought to hold the awkward stance.

"I was surprised, Qui-Gon," Xanatos was saying, glaring up at the Master's expressionless face, "to find that you had taken up another apprentice. But then, when I came to understand this one's oafishness and . . .lack of wisdom, I realized that of course he is just another of your pitiful charities."

He spat out the last two words with acrid venom.

Despite everything: the joy of seeing his Master alive, the roaring pain in his knee, the knowledge that A'ali was lying gravely injured down below; despite all of this, Obi-Wan felt his heart contract miserably, folding in on itself to deny entrance to those painful words. But they slid in regardless, like a razor-thin blade, piercing him and laying bare the raw edges of his fears.

"Yes," his mind whispered darkly. "Why else would he have accepted me?"

He didn't see Xanatos' mouth curve in cruel half-smile, eyes glinting a challenge up at Qui-Gon, didn't see Qui-Gon's eyes flash momentarily with anger and sorrow. He stood, face averted, fighting to extricate that thought before it took root in his heart. And so, in the half-second of silence following Xanatos' words, Obi-Wan did not see his Master leap.

Moving with startling speed and grace, Qui-Gon reached for the railing of his catwalk, vaulted his tall form over it and landed with a clang on the walkway in front of them, saber ignited and raised.

But Xanatos did not engage him. Pivoting with lightning speed, he brought his blade down, diagonally, and pulled it to a stop mere centimeters from Obi-Wan's limp knee.

Qui-Gon held himself utterly still, saber held at ready, eyes boring into Xanatos' leering face. Obi-Wan's whole body, pinned back against the railing, shrank away from the blade, as he blinked away a sudden horrifying vision of the lightsaber severing his leg.

"He's already injured," Xanatos hissed. "Would you like to see him permanently crippled, or missing a leg? He's not much of a Padawan, but he'd be even less of one with a prosthesis, wouldn't he? Back to the Agricorps with him, I think."

A muscle in Obi-Wan's cheek twitched, as if a live current ran through his jaw..

Qui-Gon remained motionless, his eyes alive with inexorable purpose.

"Xanatos," he said, voice formal. "Hear me."

Xanatos' lip turned up in a derisive sneer.

Qui-Gon turned his gaze to Obi-Wan, though his voice still addressed Xanatos.

"This boy," he said, "is the finest Padawan that I have ever seen. And even were he crippled, he would still be, at 13, more of a Jedi than you were at 25." He looked back at Xanatos, and, strangely, his face was molded with compassion, and sadness for what his former Padawan had become, and for what he now was compelled to say. He leaned forward slightly, voice low and permeated with truth as he said, "Hs is more of a Jedi now than you would have ever been."

Xanatos' eyes blazed with seething fury, his whole body tightening, possessed by rage. In that moment of clouded focus, Qui-Gon struck, surging forward and bringing his blade down with such power that the air shrieked along its length. Obi-Wan was leaping too, throwing his body aside and catching the opposite railing with both hands. His knee buckled, and he fell, leg dragging behind like a burden. He pulled his good leg under him with a gasp, and pivoted, seeking the battle desperately with his eyes.

* * *

With a quickly indrawn breath, Bant kicked out the vent cover in front of her, wiggling around to peer through the opening as the cover clattered to the floor below. The bright illumination on this floor provoked a sigh of relief; surely a fully-lit floor meant a fully-used floor, one serviced by the Temple's main lift banks. She pushed herself out of the shaft, landing lightly, and after a confused moment spent orienting herself, ran centerwards.

Around the second corner, she gulped back a triumphant cry. There, at the opposite end of the corridor, she saw the first two doors of a broad bank of lifts, and she sprinted at them as if propelled by a gale-force wind, Obi-Wan's lightsaber swinging wildly at her side.

The blades whirled and dipped, a deadly, silent dance punctuated only with the scrape of booted feet on metal, the sabers' whining, humming power cells and the clash of opposing energy fields. Xanatos' face was contorted with rage and effort as he blocked a lateral slice, letting his own blade ricochet back up toward his former Master's grimly set jaw. Qui-Gon parried it easily, pushing it back with a heave of powerful shoulders and then disengaging to strike again. He pressed the battle back, away from his wounded apprentice, giving Obi-Wan the space to escape.

But escape was not his plan.

How can I help? Obi-Wan thought raggedly. How? How? Can't use hand combat, leg won't work. Why did I give my saber to Bant. . .?

And then he heard a faint sound, a rustling scrape, from below.

A'ali!

He dragged his eyes away from Qui-Gon and Xanatos, looking down to see that A'ali had moved, rolling onto her side. A smear of blood glistened on the walkway next to her.

She needs help too! he thought frantically.

A thud, the sound of fist on flesh, assailed him suddenly, and he jerked his head back around, to see Xanatos reeling back from a blow to his face, blade askew. The black anger that surged around him abated suddenly, replaced with something that seemed very like fear, or dismay. Qui-Gon pressed the advantage, snuffing his saber with one hand and reaching out with the other. Wielding the Force with a quick twist of his hand, he wrenched Xanatos' lightsaber out of his grip and sent it spinning out over the abyss.

His hand remained outstretched in the suddenly frozen stillness, his eyes boring into Xanatos' face.

"Surrender. You cannot win this battle."

Xanatos' eyes had been momentarily blank with the shock of losing his weapon, but they sparkled now with malevolent hatred.

'This one? This particular one? Maybe not. But others. . ."

He whirled. Qui-Gon's hand dropped and reignited his weapon as he leaped forward. Xanatos lunged ahead, barely evading the sweep of Qui-Gon's blade. As the arc of the swing carried past him, he pivoted again with shocking swiftness, and pushed Qui-Gon back with a wickedly thrust forearm. Qui-Gon barely stumbled, but the fraction of a second required for him to regain his balance gave Xanatos the time he needed. He took three quick leaping strides forward, leaned over the railing, thrust out his hand, and wrenched A'ali's lightsaber from her prone body, calling it to him with all the force of his dark power, igniting it the moment it slapped into his palm. Qui-Gon pursued, face intent on ending this battle, and he struck a sharp vertical blow at Xanatos' outstretched arm. Xanatos only barely managed to tip his blade backward enough to deflect the blow, and then suddenly, from out of nowhere, a shiv was in his other hand and he drove it at Qui-Gon's heart with all his strength.

"Master!" Obi-Wan lurched forward, trying to close the three-meter gap between he and the combatants with one pained hop.

Only a Jedi's reflexes could defend a man from such a blow. Qui-Gon's free hand snapped up in a blur of motion, slapping the blade away from his chest with his open palm, but, quick as it was, this defensive movement could not prevent the shiv from slicing sideways, shearing away the fabric of his tunic and scoring a red gash across the muscles of his upper arm. He flinched away, swinging his lightsaber instinctively toward Xanatos' body. Snarling, Xanatos jerked the knife back, leaping aside to avoid the strike. His momentum carried him farther then he intended, and he stumbled backward, almost falling at Obi-Wan's feet.

And from below, Obi-Wan heard a groaning sigh, a sound pregnant with pain. Obi-Wan's gaze flicked from his Master's blood-soaked arm as he pressed forward, to Xanatos' stumbling form, then over the railing to A'ali's crumpled body.

He knew what must be done.

Xanatos recovered his balance. His eyes locked with Obi-Wan's, for a fraction of an instant, and he tightened his grip on the shiv, raising his other arm to block Qui-Gon with the lightsaber and aiming the knife at Obi-Wan's chest..

Qui-Gon pulled back, halting his lightsaber at the apex of his next strike, and Xanatos grinned viciously at him. "What will it be, Master?" His voice robbed the title of all its honor. "Strike me down? You can't be sure I won't kill him first. I can destroy him right here."

Obi-Wan glared at him, muscles bunching along his shoulders as he tightened his grip on the railing.

"That's true. You can. But there's one thing you can't do." Obi-Wan glanced over Xanatos' shoulder to Qui-Gon's face. Master, he thought, I hope you can sense what I'm about to do.

"What's that?" Xanatos asked, one brow cocked mockingly.

Obi-Wan's eyes remained fixed on his Master's, and he saw the flash of comprehension and then the barely visible nod. He looked back at Xanatos and said quietly, "You can't follow me."

With his free hand, Qui-Gon seized Xanatos' wrist and jerked him off-balance. Obi-Wan leaped across the walkway on his good leg, and reached for the Force. He propelled himself into a handstand atop the railing and then pivoted on one hand so that he was facing outward. Dimly, behind him, he heard the discordant clash of sabers as he swung his body out and down, feeling the great weight of the abyss above and the slowly turning menace of huge fan blades below. Then he released his grip on the railing, pushing outward with all his strength.

His body fell, arcing downward. He saw the lower catwalk rushing up to meet him, with A'ali's curled body silhouetted against the dark metal like a shell on a blackened beach, and wrapped the Force around him.

* * *

General Molu could feel their resistance to his words. They were settled back in their chairs, regarding him dispassionately. He wondered distantly what it would take to move them to a display of emotion.

A white-haired Master spoke, then, leaning forward slightly. "General, I believe we would have detected Xanatos' presence if he were truly here at the Temple."

The small one pursed his lips, ears raising slightly. "Perhaps not. Difficult to see, darkness can be."

Molu shrugged. "That isn't my province. I am the messenger only."

"Qui-Gon Jinn requested us to gather. Why isn't he here himself to tell us of this?" This from an elegant elderly woman.

. "He sensed distress, and has gone to see to the safety of his apprentice." Molu crossed his arms across his chest.

Polite disbelief drifted gently over the chamber. Molu saw it in the narrowed eyes, the tightened lips, the minute shifting of postures. After a moment of silence, the diminutive Master spoke.

"No apprentice has Master Qui-Gon."

No apprentice? Molu's brow furrowed, as he tried to reconcile that statement with what he knew of his Jedi friend, with what he had seen in the last two days. Slowly he shook his head.

"Forgive me, your honors, but I believe you're mistaken. He does indeed have an apprentice. Someone named Obi-Wan."

The _sinna_, curled around one of the General's feet, lifted its head and chirped, "Obi-Wan Kenobi"

A wave of astonishment swept the Chamber. The Masters looked from one to another, seeming almost nonplused. Molu could not help the small smile that curled one corner of his mouth. So that's what it takes to move them, he thought.

Aloud, he asked mildly, "You didn't know about this?"

The elegant woman leaned forward suddenly, brow creased in quick urgency. "You said Qui-Gon has gone to see to Obi-Wan's safety. Does he have some reason to believe the boy is in danger/"

Molu nodded. "He has felt fear and pain, and thought the boy is the source."

"And I told A'ali to check on him . . ." The woman's face went bland as she receded from them, and then contorted in sudden worry as her focus snapped back "I can't find her! All I sense is unfocused distress. . ."

As one, the twelve Masters stood.

"Locate all of them, we should," the small one said grimly. "At once."


	16. Chapter 16

**Joint Strength Part Sixteen**

Obi-Wan's body fell away, disappearing from Qui-Gon's field of view even as he brought his saber up to block a slashing horizontal strike from Xanatos' blade. The deep wound etched into his upper arm by the shiv's keen edge howled in protest as the skin and muscles stretched and contracted with his answering swing. He swatted Xanatos' saber aside, face absolutely calm as he whipped his blade back around toward his opponent's midsection. Xanatos parried swiftly, and the two blades locked between them, providing a momentary impasse as each sought to force the other to disengage first.

And then, taking a risk that his disciplined swordsmanship would usually forbid, he glanced away from his opponent, for the barest fraction of an instant, because his heart demanded that he see if Obi-Wan had survived the fall unharmed.

The force was strong in Obi-Wan.

As was the memory of a certain teaching exercise, a lesson regarding the use of the Force in acrobatics.

In the moment that remained for thought, his mind gibbered frantically, pointing out the drastic difference between the thickly padded floor of the Exercise Room and the cold metal walkway reaching up to embrace him, but he heard another voice, overlapping his stuttering fears: an aged Jedi Master saying, "In your mind the differences are!"

He flung out his arms, straight and taut from shoulder to fingertips, and visualized the Force winging out from his hands like iron cords. His hands contracted into fists, clenching the invisible strands, and his fall abruptly, visibly, slowed, a scant meter above the catwalk. He pulled his hands in, dropping the last distance as if stepping off a low platform, and grasped the railing to support his injured leg. A few meters away, A'ali lay curled like a withered leaf, and he hopped awkwardly to her, lowering himself unto his good knee, and quietly calling her name.

She did not respond..

Carefully, he cupped one palm under her cheek and moved her head, seeing at once the cause of her distress: a bloody bruised gash along her temple. A flickering glance upward showed a red stain on the railing nearby. She had struck her head as she fell.

I've got to get her out of here, Obi-Wan thought. Got to get help. . .

He looked higher, to the catwalk above, where two figured strained, leaning toward one another, the planes of their faces bathed in the light of crossed sabers.

No help there. Not yet anyway.

With visible effort, he wrenched his eyes away, speaking to his own heart in the short simple words one would direct at a child.

Qui-Gon will win. I know he will. But I must help A'ali now. She hasn't much time.

Pulling himself to his feet again, he peered through the dim light, hunching his shoulders against the angry hum of the lightsabers above. There must be a way off this walkway. He had to locate that exit first and then he would concern himself with how he was going to lift and carry A'ali.

My Master will be all right, he thought fiercely, forcing himself not to stare upward in horrified fascination as he edged his way along the catwalk. My Master is the best swordsman in the Order.

Xanatos leaped back, avoiding a powerful upward stroke, and grinned humorlessly, his mouth stretching like a gash across his face.

"I'm younger and stronger, Qui-Gon. And faster."

Qui-Gon's only response was pursuit, driving forward and bringing the blade back down again so that Xanatos was forced to block it at an awkward, wrists-bent angle. Bantering during battle was always a mistake of the young and vain, two attributes that Qui-Gon no longer possessed.

Obi-Wan stopped abruptly, staring in consternation at the blank wall emerging out of the gloom. There was no doorway!

How could that be? Why build a catwalk with no way to access it? Unless there was just one door, at the other end, but. . . that didn't make sense either.

His gaze slid downward and snagged on the turning blades of the gigantic fan. This close, their steady rhythm was hypnotic, soothing. He stared at them, mesmerized for a moment, and then thought slowly, If this walkway was built to service the fan, then there must be some way to get down to it, and if there's a way to get down, then there must also be a way to get up. . .

Intent now, he hopped closer to the dead-end, studying it carefully, and saw at last a set of small, darkened controls set into the railing itself next to the wall. He bent over it, realizing, after a moment's examination, that the railing here was detached from the rest of the catwalk, attached instead to a narrow sliver of platform that jutted out from beneath the walkway. A frown wrinkling his brow as he tried to ignore the desperate sense of hurry clawing at his shoulders, he found a likely activator switch, and hit it. Instantly, it glowed green, and the railing slid out and rotated, revealing that the platform it was attached to was two meters square, floating free on antigrav repulsors. A tight grin of triumph lit Obi-Wan's face. The other controls must direct it sideways and down.

And up.

Now he knew how to lift and carry A'ali.

He grasped the platform's railing and pulled himself aboard, familiarizing himself with the controls in a moment, and then piloted it back along the walkway toward A'ali with all the ease of a seasoned technician.

Above, the clash of sabers increased in speed and ferocity, and Xanatos knew, as slimy fear slithered across the roof of his mouth, that he was growing fatigued.

His blows were parries and preventive blocks now. Qui-Gon's blade was the aggressor, seeking any weakness in his defenses, like water pressing eagerly at the chinks in a dam. He stared unblinkingly into his former Master's still face, and he knew, with chilling certainty, that Qui-Gon would accept no outcome for this battle except his complete surrender.

Or his death.

He had to escape.

Then, glaring desperately about, searching for any avenue, his eye caught a movement. Down below, he saw Obi-Wan maneuvering a small service platform onto the catwalk next to A'ali's crumpled body.

And his eyes narrowed grimly.

With the strength born of frenzied self-preservation, he hooked Qui-Gon's blade with his own and shoved it down and away. Releasing his grip on the saber with one hand, he pounded his fist into Qui-Gon's wounded shoulder with all his strength, and then thrust back, throwing all the dark power of his fear and rage into the heave. Qui-Gon stumbled backward, involuntarily jerking away from the scream of pain in his shoulder, and Xanatos snuffed his blade and hooked it to his belt. He took an instant to calculate, and then vaulted over the railing.

Like a dark angel, he fell, landing on the platform directly behind Obi-Wan, who recovered instantly from the shock and slapped his hand to his belt, fingers curling to grasp his lightsaber.

Which wasn't there.

Eyes dark with resolve, he brought his hand up again, preparing to strike out with his bare fists, since they seemed the only weapon left to him, but Xanatos' hand moved in a blur and reappeared holding the shiv, tip pointed outward. The mirrored surface of the blade winked at Obi-Wan from beneath a streak of Qui-Gon's blood.

Obi-Wan held himself completely still. He focused on the blade and thought desperately of ways to outmaneuver it, finally bringing his eyes up to regard his enemy.

Xanatos' face was illumined by an incandescent malevolence. Deliberately, he looked down, inclining his head to study the empty clasp on Obi-Wan's belt. Then he murmured, looking back up with a slow smile, "You shouldn't have given it to your small orange friend." The grin grew wider. "It's her death warrant."

Obi-Wan had no time to assimilate the sickened shock that rocked him.

The lightsaber! Bant!

The moment his focus wavered, Xanatos swept him off the platform with a low, vicious kick. He whirled around, shoved the shiv back into his belt, clamped his hands over the platform's controls and piloted it up and away from the catwalk.

Just as Qui-Gon leaped out from the upper railing.

The distance was too great, and the platform was moving rapidly away, and yet somehow Qui-Gon's leap seemed to grow rather than dwindle, as if gravity were lifting him instead of pulling him down. The shock of his landing caused the platform to list wildly to one side before the repulsors could compensate. Xanatos hooked one whole arm around the railing to keep his footing, and Qui-Gon seized it as well, instantly pulling himself forward and locking one huge hand around the outflung wrist of Xanatos' other arm. The platform righted itself, and Xanatos unhooked his arm, a predator's snarl distorting his face. But Qui-Gon caught that wrist too, as his hand flashed upward with the shiv in its grip, and a fierce, straining struggle erupted, a contest of pure strength, made infinitely dangerous by the small platform on which it was fought, and the slyly winking blade between them.

Obi-Wan had landed almost on top of A'ali, and his hand brushed a slim metal cylinder, fallen halfway out of a concealed pocket in her tunic. He stared at it, and his eyes widened.

* * *

Suddenly, as they turned in unison toward the door, moving in the same current of thought, a metallic buzz filled the Chamber. The old woman, the one that Molu had inwardly titled 'the Duchess', snatched at a small device on her belt, breathing out a word: "A'ali!"

She clicked a button and stood listening, head bent, to the urgent murmurs spilling out of its depths. The expression of hope animating her face died quickly.

"Where are you?"

More indistinct syllables.

"We'll be there at once."

She deactivated it with a snap, looked up at the others, and spoke rapidly, the calm strength in her voice mitigated by the anguish in her eyes. "They're in the main power conduit, he's not sure what level. A'ali is injured badly. Qui-Gon is battling Xanatos. His friend Bant is somehow in danger. His voice cut off before he could tell me more."

* * *

Obi-Wan dropped the comlink, as A'ali abruptly began to moan and thrash, in the grip of some violent, pained vision. Fearing the movements might exacerbate her injury, he slid over to her, trying to pin her shoulders down as gently as he could. His young face was set in the grim lines of a much older man as he struggled to hold her still, craning his neck upward desperately to watch his Master struggle as well.

* * *

To Molu's surprise, there were no startled exclamations, no grim pronouncements. The Jedi Masters merely advanced on the Chamber's door, an army of twelve. Molu thought that, though he commanded a force of thousands back home on Triki, he would not want to be pitted in battle against such foes.

But before they could take more than two strides, a muted chime sounded, and , at the end of the short corridor leading to the Chamber, the lift door slid aside.

Like a diminutive torpedo, a small figure shot out of the lift and along the hall toward them. Around him, Molu could sense the Masters' sudden stillness. As she barreled toward them, her eyes met Molu's through the open door and widened as if in recognition.

Why? he wondered. Do I know this child?

She plunged through the doorway, saying, "Masters, forgive me, but I. . ."

Her words were abruptly drowned by a hideous, high-pitched squeal that seemed to erupt from everywhere, from the air itself. Its directionless scream flooded the chamber, as the Masters instantly began to fan out, searching for its source, and the little fishgirl hunched over, hands clapped white-knuckled to her ears.

Molu stood frozen for an instant, momentarily blinded by a frantic memory of Qui-Gon Jinn standing, hand outstretched toward the cowering _sinna_ in a tree outside of Teek's small round house.

The pitch steepened in tone: explosion was imminent.

Where was the spidermine? Where? Where?

He advanced on the girl, knowing she must be bearing either the trigger or the mine itself., and she scuttled away from him, eyes wide. The Jedi Masters closed in, faces grim, but there was no time to explain to them what to look for.

Where was it?

The _sinna_ was circling, chittering angrily at a remembered enemy, this noise that had assaulted it once before. Suddenly, it bared its teeth, claws scratching against the Chamber's patterned floor. With a snarl- half angry, half crazed- the slender creature launched itself at the girl.

Straight at the lightsaber clasped to her waist.

With a flash of comprehension, Molu sprang at her, snatched the weapon off her belt and pushed the shocked girl away.

What now? He whirled, desperately. What to do with it?

The windows! No, they didn't seem to be glass. No time to try to drill through whatever they were made of.

What? Where then?

Spinning, feeling the fear scrabbling cruelly at his throat, he suddenly focused on the open door, the small corridor, the lift at the end, door open. . .

Door beginning to close. . .

With a battlehowl the equal of any uttered by his warrior ancestors, Molu threw himself forward. Two, three, four strides, snapping his muscular torso like a thickened whip, he hurled the saber down the hall with a sideways, cocked-wrist fling.

End for end, it flipped, polished surfaces glinting merrily in the light of the aircars passing oblivious outside the corridor's windows. It sailed in a flat arc down the hall and through the fast closing gap between the lift door and its frame.

As the door eased closed, he caught a glimpse of the saber striking the back wall and tumbling to the floor.

One second passed.

Molu skidded to a stop and pivoted, hurling himself back into the Chamber and punching the door's controls with the back of his fist.

Two seconds.

The Chamber door slid quietly shut.

And then the concussive force of an explosion rocked the Temple to its roots.

* * *

Like a distant roll of ominous thunder, a rumble shook the air around them, and dust from somewhere far above glinted madly in the shafts of dim light that pierced the conduit. In the contorted face before him, Qui-Gon saw a fathomless abyss of dark triumph, welling up from the core of Xanatos' spirit. He ceased his struggle against Qui-Gon's grip, leaning forward and whispering, "They're all dead, Master. Your precious Council. All of them. And next it will be you and him. I vow it on my father's name."

And suddenly, he dropped, throwing himself backward to the very edge of the platform and breaking Qui-Gon's grasp. A booted foot shot out, seeking to sweep Qui-Gon's feet from under him, but the Master had seen that ploy before, and leaped over the kick, grasping the railing to stay anchored to the platform. Xanatos scrambled to his feet and lunged forward, shiv held low. Qui-Gon deflected the knife arm away with the back of his fist, and thrust out his other hand to repel Xanatos' forward movement with the Force. Xanatos stumbled backward, grabbing the railing at the last moment, heels hanging over the edge. Qui-Gon had instinctively stepped forward to seize his arm and prevent his falling, for despite all the evil that shadowed him, this man had once been a well-loved apprentice. But Xanatos thrust savagely forward with the knife, seeking only to kill.

There's no way to end this quickly, Qui-Gon thought. And it must end. Now. The Council. . .

And he flung out a thought, through the Force: Padawan, I cannot do this alone. You must help me.

Below, Obi-Wan had pulled off his darksuit's tunic and wrapped it around A'ali's shoulders, hoping rather helplessly that the extra warmth would help her. He could see the platform hovering far above, with Xanatos poised at the very edge and Qui-Gon standing just out of knife's reach in a defensive stance, obviously seeking any opening to seize the weapon.

Suddenly, Qui-Gon's voice filled his mind. Cannot do this alone. Padawan. Help me.

And with the voice came a vision, a sudden blueprint of the action he must take. He opened himself to it, thrusting himself to his feet, and scooping up the discarded comlink, cradling it in his hand like a mother's last gift. With the Force singing in him, he stepped back once, onto a leg that shouldn't have been able to support him, and then surged forward. Committing all his body to one fluid movement, he hurled the comlink upward.

Its straight unwavering flight was propelled by more than merely one boy's arm. Like a slim silver bird of prey, it flew, and exploded in a cloud of miniature lightning as it struck the gravity regulator on the underside of the platform.

For one timeless moment, Qui-Gon's eyes locked with his fallen apprentice.

Then gravity enfolded the platform, and it fell.

Qui-Gon took one giant stride and leaped off, the force of his feet pushing off sending the platform careening wildly in the opposite direction. He landed on the upped walkway with a graceful roll.

Xanatos released his grip on the railing, falling backward off the platform and flipping in midair, arms outstretched to catch the railing of the lower catwalk, where Obi-Wan watched in frozen horror.

As, Qui-Gon regained his footing and whirled around, Xanatos' fingertips brushed the railing.

And found no grip.

With a howl of pure rage, he fell between the massive blades of the slowly turning fan, and disappeared.


	17. Chapter 17

**Joint Strength Part Seventeen**

Bruck Chun hunched against the curved wall, immersed in the deep shadow of the catwalk's canopy. An acrid sickness churned and roiled within him, and he pushed his fists against his stomach to keep it at bay.

He had come seeking Morran.

Instead he'd seen him die.

Beckoned first by the distant sound of battling sabers, and then the open doors, he had entered the conduit access cautiously, finally flattening himself against the wall as he slipped forward, until he could see the main portion of the walkway. For an instant, his eyes had focused on Morran and Master Jinn, facing each other atop some sort of antigrav platform, and then, out of nowhere, a silvery projectile had struck it from below, and it had fallen. With a mighty leap, Master Jinn had landed safely on the catwalk.

Morran had not.

Now, he struggled to gulp down a rush of nausea, and his thoughts ricocheted frantically inside his skull while he watched Master Jinn brace his arms against the railing, looking down.

Morran was dead. Dead! No one could survive such a fall.

The horror that rocked him made him realize how dependent he had become upon Morran's guidance. He felt the reality of what he'd just witnessed choking him, pulling him down, as if he were falling too.

No, he told himself furiously, I have to make something good of this. He took a silent shuddering breath, and forced his mind to concentrate.

Morran was dead. So be it. Perhaps, in the end, that was fortunate, for now there was no one to connect Bruck with the attacks on Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan might suspect, but he wouldn't know for sure the depth of Bruck's involvement. It would be Bruck's testimony against Obi-Wan's.

A sudden, bleak smile cracked the rigid planes of his face. I can tell a better story than Kenobi, any day, he thought. I'll swear that he provoked me into that first fight. There's no one else to say differently.

So. He would have to explain, somehow, his drawing of saber against Bant. But, for the other things, he would spin a story. He'd say, eyes damp with remorse, that Morran had deceived him, that he hadn't known what Morran was really planning, that he had thought Morran was a fellow Jedi. Yes, that would work.

As for Qui-Gon Jinn, the original plan to ingratiate himself with the Master could still work. He just needed to. . .

The momentum of these thoughts screeched to a halt as Master Jinn spoke.

"All right?" he asked, gazing down upon something below the catwalk. His voice was rich with affection and concern.

"Yes," came the answer.

The skin across Bruck's jaw stretched suddenly taut. Kenobi!

He slid forward a few more centimeters, just enough to look over the walkway's edge. On a catwalk below, Obi-Wan leaned heavily on the railing, beside a crumpled form that Bruck recognized, after a puzzled moment, as A'ali Cek.

Obi-Wan was saying, "But she's really bad. . ."

Master Jinn nodded, face growing grim. "I'll try to help her."

Even from this distance, Bruck could see the pain in Obi-Wan's eyes as he asked softly, "What about Xanatos? He isn't. . .?"

Xanatos? thought Bruck. Wasn't that the name of Master Jinn's former appren. . .

"No. But he's gone," Qui-Gon said, with a subtext in his voice that Bruck couldn't identify. The boy and the man seemed to be having a conversation consisting of more than the words they were speaking. "He means nothing right now, Obi-Wan. You, and she, and the Council, and your friend Bant: they are my priorities.

Obi-Wan nodded, "Bant, and the Council. . . they aren't dead?" His voice was calm, but the anguish in his eyes had deepened.

Qui-Gon shook his head. "No. We would have felt a passing of that magnitude, in the Force. But I fear they're in danger."

Bruck's mind skidded abruptly into a new channel of thought. He needed to impress Master Jinn and undermine Kenobi. Kenobi was obviously trapped down there, helpless. He would offer his strength and assistance, show he was more resourceful. . .

But even as these ideas arranged themselves in his mind, he was startled into further immobility by a sudden smile on Master Jinn's face as he said. "I suspect that a leap is out of the question."

Obi-Wan cocked his head to one side, face serious. "I could try. . ."

Bruck's lip curled up in a sneer.

Qui-Gon held up a cautioning hand. "No, I don't want you to risk further injury."

"Is there another service platform up there?" Obi-Wan suddenly pointed almost directly at Bruck. He froze. He couldn't be discovered skulking here in the dark! Frantically, he began to fabricate an explanation for his presence, as Qui-Gon took a few strides in his direction, examining the railing. He held himself absolutely still, trying to mask any thought or emotion that might leak out and alert them to his presence. Qui-Gon stopped short of the canopied section, however, and, after a moment, he said, "No. Looks like controls to summon the. . . other one.."

Both Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan glanced down to where the service platform lay crumpled on one of the rotating blades, still sparking fitfully. As one, they looked back at one another, and something almost like a grin passed between them.

"I don't think that's a workable option," Qui-Gon said, striding back. "And time is passing quickly. I'll lift you."

As he spoke, A'ali moved suddenly, a sighing moan escaping her parted lips. Obi-Wan eased over to her, bending and securing his tunic more tightly around her shoulders. He threw a worried glance up to Qui-Gon, who nodded soberly.

"We must hurry. A'ali first."

Obi-Wan straightened, taking an off-balance hop back.

Bruck watched as Qui-Gon stretched out his hand, palm downward, eyes closing. He felt the Force snap tight around the tall Knight, and then flow outward toward A'ali. Peering down, he saw that Obi-Wan also had closed his eyes, and reached out his own hand, palm upward. A strange, apprehensive tightness squeezed Bruck's chest.

Slowly, Qui-Gon's hand rotated and lifted, and, as it did, A'ali rose gently from the metal decking and ascended. His arm rose higher, and then to the left, as her body cleared the railing. Then, he turned his palm downward again, as he lowered her onto the catwalk at his feet. His eyes opened, and he directed a smile over the railing, where Obi-Wan was lowering his own outstretched arm.

"Thank you, Obi-Wan. Now, your turn."

Bruck felt the Force surge again, as he concentrated on leashing his anger. How did Kenobi dare to just step in and assist a Master in the use of the Force? Who did he think he was? Eyes glittering darkly, he watched Obi-Wan's head, and then the rest of him, rise over the railing and settle easily onto the decking beside A'ali.

The Force receded, and Obi-Wan pitched forward, as if its power had been the only thing supporting him. Face suddenly tight, Qui-Gon lunged quickly to catch his arm; Obi-Wan grimaced, shaking his head ruefully.

"Thank you, Master."

For an instant the two of them regarded one another: Qui-Gon's sleeve stained dark with blood, a deep cut in his upper arm glaring an angry red; Obi-Wan's leg held awkwardly, a large patch of. . .something. . .glistening on the dark fabric. Then Qui-Gon smiled, and brought his other hand up to rest lightly on Obi-Wan's shoulder.

"Well," he said, "It's been a busy day, my Padawan."

The solid metal under Bruck's feet seemed to disappear as his mind reeled backward in shock. 'Padawan'! No, he couldn't have heard correctly! It couldn't be! 'Padawan'. . . that meant that Obi-Wan was already Jinn's apprentice! It meant that Morran, or Xanatos or whoever he was, had lied. . .

But his mind, disciplined however unwillingly by the rigors of Jedi study, mercilessly replayed Morran's words: "Qui-Gon Jinn returns to the Temple today. He means to publicly name a Padawan."

Oh no, that was no lie, only a skillful avoidance of truth. Even in the despair that engulfed him, a small corner of Bruck's heart offered up a tribute to such a skilled manipulation. The rest of his spirit writhed angrily under the humiliation of being so used, but the admiration remained, anchored in the darkest harbor of his soul.

When he recovered sufficiently to look up again, he saw Master Jinn bent over A'ali, hand laid gently against her temple. The Force swirled around them, and a deep silence shrouded the catwalk. Many long minutes squeezed by; all three remained motionless.

Finally, with a slow exhalation, Qui-Gon lifted his hand from A'ali, shaking his head.

"I've tried to assist her, but. . .she needs a more skillful healer than I. Let's go."

He gathered A'ali into his arms, and straightened, indicating the door at the opposite end of the catwalk with his chin. "There's probably another lift on that side of the conduit. You'll have to use me as a support when we run out of walkway."

Jaw set grimly, Obi-Wan nodded and grasped the railing. Qui-Gon gave him a quick, encouraging smile, and strode forward.

Bruck's mind was racing, his entire being focused now on one goal: extricating himself from this whole situation. In addition to the story he had already planned to spin, wouldn't it also be best to offer a load of eager helpfulness?

Before the thought was fully formed, he was running forward.

As his first step clanged on the catwalk, Master Jinn pivoted, somehow managing to draw and ignite his saber while still holding A'ali. He lowered it when he recognized Bruck, and frowned.

"Where is Bant? Didn't you stay with her?"

Bruck blanked horrifyingly for a moment. He had forgotten about that. His scrambling thoughts lurched into motion, and he said glibly, "She went up the ventilation shafts. I told her she could move more quickly alone. Then I came to see if I could assist you, and I found you just now."

His voice gave a tiny emphasis to the last two words.

Master Jinn's eyes skewered him, his frown deepening, but he nodded, and said, "We're grateful for your help. If you could assist my apprentice. . ."

Bruck molded his face into an expression of concern, ignoring the sharp stab of those words. Obi-Wan was staring at him with almost open-mouthed disbelief, but Bruck ignored that, too, wrapping his arm around Obi-Wan's shoulders to support him.

Obi-Wan's eyes were cold, but he accepted the offered help, and Bruck smiled inwardly. He's a fool, he thought. By the time I'm done, even Obi-Wan will believe that I'm a total innocent.

Slowly, with Qui-Gon leading in an abbreviated version of his usual strong stride, the four of them made their way to the far end of the walkway.

Below, the blades of the fan continued their unceasing cycle. None of them were stained with blood.

* * *

The explosion had cut off all power to the tower; only the light of the city and its late-night traffic provided a shifting illumination. With an ear-grating metallic screech, the buckled door of the Council Chamber scraped to the side and then stopped abruptly, leaving a half-meter gap. A slim whiskered nose thrust eagerly out, but General Molu seized the _sinna_ around its middle and eased it gently back from the door, where it crouched on its haunches and scolded him so vehemently that weary smiles appeared on most of the faces in the room, flashes of white teeth in the darkness.

"A courageous little soul," murmured Master Yareal.

Master Yoda tapped the floor with his stick, "The hallway? Clear, it is?"

General Molu had already stepped gingerly through the gap, and he leaned in to answer.

"No." He had been clutching the doorframe with one hand, and now he pulled himself back with a grunt. "The floor out there is unstable-it feels as if the supports underneath are cracked or completely broken. None of us could walk on it."

He lifted his voice as several of the Masters began to speak.

"And, forgive me, honored Jedi, but, even if we could get out there, it looks as if the far end of the hall is collapsed."

They all nodded, sensing rather than seeing the grim expressions shared among their faces. None of them had expected differently. And they all knew that the lift shaft itself was almost certainly destroyed. No one would be coming to rescue them that way. This was confirmed a moment later by Tel Udrunn, who had been murmuring into her comlink.

"Well," she said, returning it to her belt. "The primary and secondary lifts are unusable. They are searching for another way to access this level that hasn't been compromised." Her voice thinned. "And there is no word of A'ali, or Qui-Gon Jinn and young Kenobi. They're sending some to search the power conduit, but we don't know what level they're on, so. . ."

Off to the side, Bant pressed the knuckles of one hand to her mouth.

General Molu mouth tightened and he walked over to the window, regarding the hypnotic flow of traffic outside. Slowly, he said, "Is it possible that a shuttle of some kind could come and hover beside this window?"

His question was greeted by a brief moment of speculative silence, and then nods of agreement, bare flutters of movement in the darkness. Tel Udrunn's hand dipped to her comlink, and three different Masters reached for their lightsabers.

* * *

When they turned into yet another corridor, and saw a lift door beckoning at its far end, Obi-Wan exhaled deeply. His entire leg throbbed, a bone-deep pain, and his spirit was burdened, mostly with worry for Bant and the Council, but also with reluctance to accept Bruck's help. He had kept his eyes focused on Qui-Gon's back, trying to swallow the frantic worry, and thus thinking mostly about the reluctance, and about the one who provoked it. The other boy's support had not wavered since they had left the catwalk, but Obi-Wan's every muscle was stiff with suspicion, unsure if he could really trust the arm that assisted him.

What did Bruck know about Xanatos? Was Bruck really involved in destroying Obi-Wan's possessions, in throwing the shiv in the dining room, in stealing Obi-Wan's lightsaber and making it into some sort of 'death warrant'? In the deep corners of his heart, Obi-Wan believed that he was. But there was no proof. What could Bruck truthfully be accused of? The fight in the hall, striking Obi-Wan's knee, charging at him with saber drawn?

Somehow, Bruck would find a way to explain all of that. Obi-Wan knew this with a sudden, sinking surety.

The four of them crowded into the small lift, a secondary service mechanism exactly twin to the one disabled on the other side of the conduit. Strong relief colored Qui-Gon's voice as the door closed and he said, "Healers Wing."

* * *

Rentzel Forrakim, senate courier, piloted his small shuttle through the night traffic with a distinctly sour expression marring the fine blue skin around his mouth. It was true that the business of the Republic never ceased, but was it _really_ necessary to send Travian brandy to the Ulma ambassador at this time of night? Did this even qualify as business?

Forrakim bared his teeth in annoyance, since there was no one around to tell him to practice a little more diplomacy. He thought of his mother, who was so proud of her son's glamorous government career, and let his breath out in a sad hiss. If she only knew. . .

And then his eyes grew perfectly round in stark amazement.

His route had taken him directly past the Jedi Temple. There, at the top of the tower nearest him, something very strange was happening at one of the windows. He wrenched his vehicle out of the traffic lane and brought it to a halt, letting it hover silently as he watched, slack-jawed.

Three bright blades of pure light were drilling slowly through the window, cutting a vaguely rectangular shape. When the shape was complete, the blades withdrew, and then, with an odd, unnatural motion, the cut-out portion was yanked backward, though Forrakim could see no one inside pulling on it. From below, a small planetary shuttle came swooping up, snapping to a stop and then inching forward until its front end hovered a mere half-meter from the window. A rectangle of warm yellow light appeared as the door in the shuttle's front was opened, and then some sort of slim metal plank was thrust forward to form a bridge between window and shuttle.

With an athletic hop, a man appeared in the open window, a very strangely-attired man, who took a tentative step forward onto the plank, and then strode quickly across into the shuttle, turning back at the last moment to gesture invitingly back into the tower. In quick succession, a whole parcel of other figures began appearing at the window and crossing the bridge, their robes and hair tossing wildly in the wind that always blew at this elevation. The last one across looked extraordinarily like Councilor Yoda. Forrakim leaned forward, eyes narrowing. It _was_ Councilor Yoda! Forrakim may have been only a minor diplomatic official, but he knew an important personage when he saw one.

Then the plank was swiftly withdrawn, and the shuttle dropped dizzyingly downward, leaving Forrakim staring bemused at a rectangular hole in the tower window. Slowly, his head swiveled to gaze speculatively at the bottles on the seat beside him. Deliver the brandy, or wing it back to the diplomatic chambers with the juiciest piece of weird gossip ever to come into his possession?

It wasn't a difficult choice, really. Approximately two seconds later, Forrakim's little craft lurched into top speed, careening into the traffic lane and skimming back the way he'd come, leaving a series of angrily-gesturing drivers in his wake.

* * *

A'ali wrestled with consciousness.

Her eyelids seemed made of stone, and a sickening pounding around the perimeter of her skull made her wish fleetingly for soothing blackness, but she thrust that temptation away, and forced her eyes open.

An impression of blurry light, of subtle motion. Slowly, though thought and perception seemed agonizingly difficult, she realized that she was being held. She moved her eyes, and commanded them to focus on the dark figure above her. Finally, the fuzzy features coalesced into the face of Qui-Gon Jinn.

"Master. . .Qui-Gon?" Her voice rasped as if it had been unused for years.

He looked quickly down, and murmured. "Don't try to speak. All is well."

She lifted a clumsy arm, patting awkwardly at the bloody gash in her temple. "What hap. . .happened?" Her eyes widened. "Xanatos!"

Qui-Gon inclined his head in a subtle gesture, and suddenly her hand was caught and gently held. She turned her head enough to see Obi-Wan Kenobi's young face, brow creased with concern.

"It's all right," he said, squeezing her hand awkwardly. "He's . . . well, he's gone."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the sensation of endlessly falling. . .falling. With supreme effort, she reached for the Force and cast herself into it, searching desperately.

*Master!*

Her mind touched Tel Udrunn's, and her Master's joy and fear washed over her. She felt the answering cry of *A'ali!*, and then the darkness reached out and enfolded her once more.

Qui-Gon sensed her fall away from them, and a brief glance at Obi-Wan told him the boy had felt it too. Obi-Wan's face was bleak as his eyes sought reassurance from his Master, but Qui-Gon could only shake his head slightly.

The lift chimed, loud in the tense silence enveloping them. As the doors slid aside, Qui-Gon was already moving, his long strides carrying him quickly out into a hallway. Obi-Wan and Bruck followed slowly, blinking in surprise at the bright light.

"Why is the daylighting on?" Bruck murmured. Obi-Wan didn't answer.

The main corridor of the Healers Wing was only a few meters away, and every light seemed to be blazing. Rounding the corner, the two boys saw Qui-Gon approaching the first doorway, and stopping abruptly as three Healers strode out of it, two bearing full medical packs over their shoulders. They skidded to a halt to avoid collision, and then startled recognition transformed their faces. Two of them leaped forward to take A'ali, and disappeared back into the room they'd just left without a word being spoken.

The third Healer smiled wearily at Qui-Gon, and indicated the pack on her shoulder.

"We were just setting out to search for you," she said. "Master Tel Udrunn was. . .quite concerned."

Qui-Gon nodded, but he was already turning back, gesturing toward Obi-Wan, his voice heavy with concern. "His leg is badly injured. . ."

Bruck backed away, leaving Obi-Wan to support himself with the corridor's wall. Face grave, the Healer hurried forward to stoop next to him and run her hand along his knee. Her touch was exquisitely gentle, but Obi-Wan could not control a flinch of pain.

"Yes." Her voice revealed nothing, which only deepened the grimness in Qui-Gon's face. "Come, let's bring him into this room. . ."

"Wait." Obi-Wan held out his hand, eyes fastened on Qui-Gon. "Master, you're going to see if the Council's safe? And Bant?"

"When you are cared for, yes."

"Please, Master, let me come with you now. Then we can come back here. Bant. . .he said it was a 'death warrant'. . ." His voice trailed off.

Qui-Gon held his eyes for a moment, and then turned decisively to the Healer. "Do you have some means of support? Something to help him walk?"

The Healer's expression revealed her disapproval, but she said, "I can put a temporary antigrav cast on it. He can walk on that." Her mouth tightened. "For a little while."

* * *

The main shuttle bays were separated from the Temple proper by a large atrium, filled with scores of potted trees and engraved metal paths, darkened now except for the citylight that filtered in through huge skylights high above. Along the graceful curves of the main walkway, the twelve Council members swept forward, robes disheveled and faces cold. General Molu followed in their wake, a bemused expression wrinkling the skin around his eyes. Yes, he thought, he definitely would wish them on his side in a battle. An aura of undiluted power encircled them. He could almost feel a moment of pity for the perpetrator of the spidermine, until he remembered Teek's empty face back home on Triki.

In any case, Molu was quite confident that his friend the Master Jedi would have rescued his young apprentice and dispatched the evildoer by now. The Council members would have no one to wreak retribution upon. Although, retribution wasn't really a Jedi sort of motivation, was it? The General shrugged inwardly. He deeply regretted that he had not been able to assist in the dispatching, but he was glad he had been present to minimize the effects of the spidermine. The gods knew best.

He glanced down to his side, where the little fishgirl trudged, the _sinna_ cuddled in her arms, humming to itself. Her face was drawn and pale, and he wished he could impart some comfort to her. She feels deeply, this little one, he thought.

As they neared the far edge of the atrium, where a set of transparent doors led into one of the main Temple corridors, the Council members in the lead suddenly slowed. General Molu and Bant pressed forward to see the doors swing open. There stood Qui-Gon Jinn, with Obi-Wan Kenobi at his side, and Bruck Chun trailing behind.

They looked terrible, stained with blood and weariness, Qui-Gon's arm deeply gashed, Obi-Wan's leg encased in a bulky antigrav unit. But Obi-Wan's face lit as he focused on Bant, and Qui-Gon's eyes swept over the Council, counting each member, and both groups quickly took in the heady realization that all of them were basically unharmed. A spirit of joyous relief replaced some of the grim tension that had engulfed them. Tel Udrunn asked, "A'ali?"

"In the Healers Wing." Qui-Gon answered gently.

"Xanatos?" Yoda's voice was grim.

"Gone."

Yoda raised his stick then, and gestured from Qui-Gon to Obi-Wan and back again, eyes narrowed testily.

"Mean to tell us about this at some point, you did?"

The remaining tightness seemed to drain away from all of them as Qui-Gon smiled. Slowly, he lifted one hand to Obi-Wan's shoulder and said, "My apologies, Master. These aren't quite the circumstances I had imagined, but perhaps it's a good time for such an announcement."

General Molu heard a quick, indrawn breath from the girl at his side, and looked down to see a brilliant smile erase the worrylines around her large eyes. She hugged the _sinna_ so tightly that it squawked, the sound echoing in the large room.

Unnoticed, Bruck crossed his arms against his chest and bent his head, the last vestiges of his unfulfilled ambitions drifting away into the dark. A different sort of darkness seeped into the empty space that was left within him. He felt it there, cold and solid; then, quite deliberately, he turned away from it and let it stay, anchored safely in the deep bay of his heart.

Obi-Wan's heart was warm as he stood before the Jedi Council. No matter that the atrium was dark, and the participants bloody, disheveled and torn. The only matter of importance was his Master beside him, and the words he spoke in his clear, deep voice: "I've taken Obi-Wan as my Padawan Learner. Does the Council approve?"

And, for all of them, Master Yoda answered, "It does."


	18. Chapter 18

**Joint Strength Conclusion: Two Ceremonies**

Through the remainder of Coruscant's long night, three Jedi Healers worked over Obi-Wan's knee.

At first, Obi-Wan had been awake, face white despite the support the Healers were giving him through the Force. Qui-Gon tried to help by narrating his entire experience since leaving Obi-Wan three days before, putting all his creative power into making the story as riveting as possible. He was rewarded by Obi-Wan's unwavering attention, while some of the pained tightness left the boy's face. Then, in short phrases, Obi-Wan related his own tale, carefully describing all his actions, but leaving unsaid the motivations and emotions that had driven him. Qui-Gon noticed this omission, and wondered. But he did not push for more, and suddenly, almost between one sentence and the next, Obi-Wan fell deeply asleep.

Qui-Gon stayed with him, occasionally brushing gentle fingers across the boy's brow, allowing a subtle pulse of the Force to seep into his sound, healing sleep. He tried not to stare broodingly at the Healers, bent in silent focus at the other end of the platform where Obi-Wan lay. At least once every fifteen minutes, he found it necessary to forcibly restrain himself from asking urgently about their progress. Obi-Wan's boneless stillness did not reassure him.

Finally though, as the platinum light of morning filtered into the room, one of the Healers, Cattidi Mun, stepped away from the platform and eased several of his tentacles into more comfortable positions. He offered Qui-Gon a small smile, and a staccato clicking noise, his species' signal of approval.

"We have repaired it," he said, while Qui-Gon was drawing breath to ask. "He must treat it gently for a day or two, but no permanent damage remains."

Qui-Gon dropped his head, crossing his arms across his chest as he assimilated the relief that coursed through his spirit. After a moment, he looked up and said simply, "Thank you."

"We serve the Force," Cattidi raised a tentacle, knotted in a gesture of reverence. "And, in this case, the outcome brings us great satisfaction."

The two other healers had broken their focus as well, and nodded in agreement.

"It was a bad injury," said one, whose name Qui-Gon did not know.

Cattidi pulled a light coverlet closer about Obi-Wan's shoulders, and then raised his chin toward Qui-Gon in inquiry. "You will stay with him?"

At Qui-Gon's nod, the Healer continued, "He'll wake soon, no doubt feeling fairly rested, which is more than you can say, I think."

Qui-Gon smiled. "I'll survive."

Cattidi clicked his approval, and, with a nod to his companions, followed them from the room. Qui-Gon settled into a cushioned bench against the wall and studied the morning light, now tinged with gold. Had it really been only three days since he and Obi-Wan had walked through a similar morning's glow to part at the Temple's main doors? And what had he had been his last words of advice? "Don't pack much. . .?"

Qui-Gon allowed himself a small derisive snort. Not much wisdom there to carry the boy through the trials he would face in the hours that followed.

Obi-Wan, he thought. This wasn't what I had in mind when I brought you back here from Bandomeer.

Hesitant footsteps out in the hall alerted him, and he turned to see the doorway filled with three young students: a Calamarian girl and two male humans, all wearing identical doubtful expressions.

Qui-Gon raised a hand to beckon them. "Come in. You're welcome, though he's still asleep."

"No, he's not," came a slightly blurry voice.

Qui-Gon pivoted, automatically reaching out to lay a hand against his temple, and the three students gathered quickly at the end of the bed. Obi-Wan managed a grin, directed first at Qui-Gon and then his friends.

"Good. . . morning?" he said.

"Yes, Padawan, morning." Qui-Gon sensed Obi-Wan's next, unspoken question. "And the Healers were able to fully repair your knee."

After the celebration provoked by this news had receded, a small awkward silence pressed itself on them. Obi-Wan broke it by suddenly remembering to introduce his three friends, who all seemed slightly awed by Qui-Gon's imposing presence. The Master felt this, and smiled.

"I need to go make some inquiries, Obi-Wan. I'll be back soon." With a nod to the others, he swept from the room, though his stride lacked its usual energy. Bant, Garen and Reeft watched him go, and then transferred accusing gazes to Obi-Wan. He held up his hands in mock surrender.

"I'm sorry! I just couldn't tell you all about it yet."

This inadequate statement precipitated a storm of questions and jests, and the room became uncommonly noisy, for quite a long while.

Finally, though, when Obi-Wan had explained the circumstances of his apprenticeship and apologized to all their satisfactions, and then recounted much more soberly the events in the power conduit; and Garen and Reeft humorously narrated their own story of endlessly waiting and finally falling asleep in Obi-Wan's barren room; and Bant had described the General and the _sinna_ and the explosion: finally, then, a new silence spread over the room, comfortable this time, and filled with thoughtful warmth.

Garen cleared his throat significantly, and darted a sharp glance at Bant. Blushing slightly, she stood from the bench where she had long since perched, and drew a small, silken-wrapped parcel out of her tunic. With an exaggerated bow, she handed it to Obi-Wan.

Giving them a quizzical half-smile, he untied its braided string and slipped off the fabric covering, emptying into his hand a tiny, intricate pendant on a long leather cord. When he unwrapped the cord and dangled the pendant in front of his eyes, he realized that it was a replica, small but exact, of his mother's sculpture. His lost treasure.

For a moment, his throat constricted and he could say nothing. He cleared it and looked up at them, all peering at him a bit anxiously.

"You made this?" he asked.

Reeft nodded. "Bant remembered the design really well, and I plotted the pattern into the computer. Garen carved it with his lasercutter."

Obi-Wan, seeing them now with more observant eyes, noticed for the first time the marks of little sleep on all their faces.

"You stayed up the rest of night to make it."

A little sheepishly, Bant nodded. "We finished about three minutes before we came to see you. But it's not like we were going to sleep anyway," she added quickly. "After the excitement and all."

Obi-Wan rubbed a thumb across it, watching the inner glow brighten under the heat of his hand. He smiled then, and said slowly, "The sculpture was. . .well, it represented my family and their hopes for me. It still does, I guess, but now it also means friendship. True friends."

He lifted it, letting it wink in the sunlight. Finally, he said, "Thank you. I. . .I can't believe you did this for me."

Garen looked down, face reddened. "I'm glad we did. You'll be going away, now that you're a Padawan, probably right after the Braiding today, so. . ."

Obi-Wan's eyes snapped wide. "Braiding! Today?"

His friends stared back at him, disconcerted.

"Well, yes," Reeft said. "It showed up on everyone's 'pads about an hour ago. 'A Braiding for Obi-Wan Kenobi, in the Main Hall'. . ." His voice emphasized how unusual that was.

"With the entire Council in attendance!" Bant burst in.

Obi-Wan sat back, dumbfounded. It was not unusual for members of the Council to attend a Braiding, but often it was a more informal ceremony, with the Master and the new apprentice and many of their friends, usually held in one of the gardens. But for all of them to come! and in the Main Hall. . .!

"It's a great honor," he whispered.

"Didn't Master Jinn tell you?" Reeft's voice was faintly incredulous.

"I intended to." They whirled to see Qui-Gon leaning against the door frame, smiling, a brown robe draped over one arm. "But it seems you've beaten me to it."

Bant's coral skin took on a much deeper tint. "We're sorry. . ."

Qui-Gon held up one hand to stop her. "No apology is needed. I'm glad that Obi-Wan has such loyal friends. And, also, you're right. We will be leaving soon." He smiled at Obi-Wan. "I've just received word that Clat'Ha has requested that we return to Bandomeer for a few days, to further assist in organizing the local government." He stepped into the room and lowered himself onto the padded bench that Bant had vacated, gesturing toward the robe he held as he said, "You'll also be pleased to know that Healer Cattidi has released you from his care into mine, so you can get off that platform if you want to."

Obi-Wan sat up with alacrity, and Garen jumped forward to help him ease off the platform onto his feet. He tried a tentative step, testing the knee rather gingerly, and then walked the full length of the room. Turning back with a grin, he said, "Good as new."

Answering smiles bloomed on his friends' faces, and then Reeft jerked his head toward the door. "I really want to get come breakfast. Anyone with me?"

Bant glanced at Garen, who rolled his eyes slightly and nodded, and the three of them left the room, leaving laughing good-byes behind. Barely a moment later, however, Bant reappeared and enveloped Obi-Wan in a careful hug.

"I'm so pleased for you," she murmured, and then she was gone.

Qui-Gon smiled, and bent down to lift the pendant still dangling in Obi-Wan's hand.

"Is it a good copy?" he asked quietly.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. "Very good. I. . . they. . ."

"I know. You are blessed in your friends, Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan nodded, and lifted the pendant over his head, and then slipped into the robe Qui-Gon offered him, grateful that he didn't have to leave the Healers Wing dressed in a medical tunic.

"Concerning friends. . .," Qui-Gon said, "I must go to the shuttle bays to bid good-bye to one. Will you come?"

"Of course, Master."

They walked in silence for a few minutes, through the Temple's morning bustle, . Many eyes followed them, and there were some who would have liked to stop them and discuss the night's extraordinary events, but a thoughtful gravity encompassed the two of them, and the busy Temple traffic parted and flowed around them without pausing, as if they were a rock in the midst of a rushing stream.

Finally, Qui-Gon said quietly, "They did not find him, down below the fan."

Obi-Wan nodded, unsurprised. "I don't understand how he could have missed being sliced by the blades."

Qui-Gon let out his breath in a slow sigh. "He was. . .is. . .strong in the Force, even though it's a dark power. Somehow he managed to fall between them and save himself." He shook his head. "And I'm certain he had an escape route prepared. He's off planet by now."

"Do you think that he really had someone helping him, here in the Temple? Someone who got him into the computer core?"

Qui-Gon's face grew grave and still. "I hope not. Perhaps he found a way to do it himself. . . If he did have an accomplice, it's someone with unlimited access, and that's a . . .a disturbing thought. The Council will investigate."

They were crossing the atrium now, aiming toward the sleek metal doors that led to the shuttle bays. Obi-Wan's brow furrowed deeply in thought, so much so that Qui-Gon finally asked, "What are you wondering about?"

Obi-Wan shook his head. "I just don't see how he could be planning this whole elaborate scheme at the same time he was trying to kill us on Bandomeer! He couldn't be in both places at once!"

"No." Qui-Gon was silent for a moment, and then said slowly, "I think that he had been laying the groundwork in Triki for a long time. Subverting Teek could not have been a quick or easy task. He originally planned to kill me there, I think, and then, after Bandomeer, he rushed back to Triki and then Coruscant, adapting his plan to merely trap me there, and use you as his instrument of revenge. 'I always have a back door', remember?"

"I guess it's not so strange that he had two plans going at once, then."

"No. In fact, it's extremely characteristic of him."

The sleek doors slid aside, and they entered the huge shuttle docking bays lining the north side of the Temple complex. This was one of Obi-Wan's favorite places, though he had rarely had a reason to come here. Now, though, his eyes were far away, unseeing. Softly, he said, "He'll try again."

Qui-Gon stopped him with a hand on his arm, and, when Obi-Wan looked up, said, "Yes. But we'll face that together when it happens."

Obi-Wan looked away. "I didn't face him very well this time."

"The circumstances were difficult, Padawan. We were both running in different directions, and when we were working separately, we were merely chasing after Xanatos, playing a game by rules he designed. Only in working together did we defeat him. Remember that. Two are stronger than one-that's the way of a master and an apprentice."

"And of friendship." They looked up to see General Molu approaching, raising a hand in greeting. "And you have been a true friend to me, Master Jedi."

"And you to me," Qui-Gon smiled.

The three of them walked together down the row of docking bays, the _sinna_ weaving among them. When they stopped, Qui-Gon watched as the approaching shuttle eased into the bay. Quietly, he said, "You must return to Triki." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I will stand before the Oracle at the next waning of the moon."

A small silence descended, until Qui-Gon said, "You will always have a place here, if. . ."

A half-smile on Molu's face stopped him. "No, my friend. I thank you for that, but no. My home is there."

"But if the Oracle calls for exile?"

Molu did not answer. Instead, he squatted down and held his hand out to the _sinna_, who scampered to him with a trilling coo to sniff energetically at his fingers. Molu studied its sleek form for a moment, and then looked up at Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan. "You see the _sinna_? It's a beautiful creature, and seems content, but it's not what it was meant to be. It should be running free, deep in the jungle, with the others of its tribe. Here, it's an oddity, a disconnected spark astray from the fire where it was born."

He straightened, looking away over their shoulders to the brightening sky beyond the docking bay. "And so would I be. I am Trikan, and on Triki will I stay." He lowered his eyes to gaze unwaveringly at their faces. "If the Oracle calls for banishment, I'll refuse to accept it. I will take Honor's Path."

A grim foreboding etched itself into Qui-Gon's face as his tall form seemed to sag slightly. Slowly he asked, "Honor's Path?"

Molu's hand strayed to the hilt of the dagger in his belt. "I will sacrifice my own life as the price of the gods' judgment."

Obi-Wan felt the blow of those words strike his Master like an armored fist. "No!" he cried. "Surely. . ."

But Qui-Gon's hand settled gently on the back of his neck, steadying him and cutting off the remainder of his protest.

Molu smiled at him. "You do me honor, young Jedi. But I would not have you fear for me. Your Master knows that I have tried to act as the gods would have me, and when I stand before the Oracle, the gods will judge if honor has been served."

He shrugged. "For myself, I believe my heart is pure."

Qui-Gon said, "I believe it also." And he bent, crossing his wrists in front of his face in a Trikan salute.

Molu echoed the gesture, and with a final smile, turned to board the waiting shuttle. At the base of its ramp, though, he paused, and turned back.

"My world is wider for having gained your friendship, Qui-Gon Jinn. And yours, young Kenobi. The gods watch you."

He lifted a hand in farewell, and disappeared into his ship, the _sinna_ bounding exuberantly at his heels.

Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan stood silent until the rectangle glow of the ship's door had contracted to a square, and then a sliver, and then was gone. Then, Qui-Gon straightened his shoulders, and smiled down at the boy beside him.

"Come. You must try to get a few hours' rest. It's an important day for you."

He rested his hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder as he said, "For both of us."

They left the shuttle bay, walking slowly back across the atrium in a companionable silence. After a few minutes, Qui-Gon frowned, noticing that Obi-Wan was beginning to limp. Without a word, he curved his arm around the boy's shoulders, subtly directing him to a smoothly fashioned metal bench, under a potted catalla tree. Obi-Wan sank onto it and rubbed absently at his knee. Qui-Gon seated himself on the rim of the tree's huge pot, stretching out his long legs.

"Padawan, will you tell me something?"

"Of course, Master."

Qui-Gon lifted one hand, gesturing caution. "I'm not requiring an answer. I'm asking, only."

Obi-Wan nodded. Refusing to answer a Master's question was forbidden, but Qui-Gon was leaving him that option, if he wished it.

Slowly Qui-Gon said, "Xanatos wanted you to go to the Council. He did everything in his considerable power to make that happen, but you didn't go. By doing so, you saved the Council's lives, and your own, but I'm wondering, why? Why did you so stubbornly resist the natural response?"

Obi-Wan closely examined one thumbnail for a moment. Finally, he said, "After I met him, down there, I could sense that he wanted me to go, and so I tried to do the opposite of what he wanted."

Qui-Gon nodded. "That was wise, and shows a sensitivity to the Force that's admirable." He let the warmth of the compliment wash over Obi-Wan, and then continued gently, "But at first, before you met him? Why not then?"

Silence stretched between them, a long, waiting silence.

Qui-Gon leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, fingers interlaced. He studied Obi-Wan's bent head, eyes dark with concern.

"Please tell me."

Slowly, then. Obi-Wan spoke. "I was afraid, Master."

He looked up, staring unseeing at the tree's knotted branches. Qui-Gon waited for a moment, and then prompted, voice low, "Of what?"

Obi-Wan transferred his stare down to his booted foot. "I didn't. . ."

He stopped. Qui-Gon waited. Finally, after a short sigh, he spoke quickly, in chopped phrases. "We came all the way back here, from Bandomeer. I thought that you must be worried, that the Council wouldn't approve of me as a Padawan, that you needed to persuade them in person. So then, the fight with Bruck, the lost saber. . .I was afraid, that they'd see all that as more reason to transfer me to the Agricorps permanently. That I wasn't worthy to be your apprentice."

A pause. Almost whispering, Obi-Wan repeated, "I was afraid. I'm sorry, Master."

Qui-Gon's jaw tightened with sudden emotion, and he rose swiftly and squatted down beside the boy's bench, capturing Obi-Wan's eyes as he looked up in surprise.

"You have no cause for apology. If anyone should be offering apologies, it should be me."

Obi-Wan stared at him. "You?"

Qui-Gon smiled. "Yes. Me. Obi-Wan, you heard what I told Xanatos, concerning you." He waited for Obi-Wan's nod, and continued more soberly. "That was truth I told him. You are the finest of Jedi, and I came back here from Bandomeer, not to convince the Council of that, but to show you how highly they, and I, regard you."

Now Qui-Gon glanced down, and when he looked up again, Obi-Wan was shocked to see unshed tears filming his Master's eyes.

"Xanatos' betrayal marked me deeply, more deeply than I cared to see, or admit, and it caused me to reject you repeatedly. Those rejections were painful for you, and I sought to repair that. I hope that you'll forgive my blindness."

The tiny flame of fear that flickered perennially in Obi-Wan's heart sputtered and died, the last wisps of its smoke fading away as he said, "If you'll forgive my fear. I should have had more trust in you."

Qui-Gon's face relaxed into a smile. "It's a bargain, then."

"Yes." Obi-Wan frowned exaggeratedly. "But if you're blind, and I'm afraid, we're not going to get very far, are we?"

Qui-Gon straightened to his feet, and his smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "I feel somewhat less blind. And I sense no fear in you. I think we will go very far indeed."

* * *

And so it was that Obi-Wan Kenobi was formally apprenticed to Master Qui-Gon Jinn, in the great Gathering Hall of the Jedi Temple, with the entire Jedi Council, and many more of the Temple's residents, in attendance.

He stood in the center of the Hall, warmed by the light of the sun pouring endlessly through the fifty-meter tall windows. A TSD hummed busily about him, trimming his longish hair close to his head, but leaving carefully untouched a portion behind his right ear. He glanced to the right, and caught Bant's eye as she stood between Garen and Reeft, beaming at him, her coral skin alight with joy on his behalf. Garen gave him a huge grin, scrunching his eyes closed comically. Reeft raised one fist and tapped his chin, a signal of unalloyed approval whose origins were lost in the misty beginnings of their childhood friendship.

Trying to hold his head very still, he managed a lopsided smile at them.

Turning his eyes the other direction, he saw his Master standing with the Council members, looking impossibly tall next to Master Yoda's diminutive form. Qui-Gon gave him a nod and a smile, and his own smile stretched into a grin of its own volition. On Qui-Gon's other side, Tel Udrunn sat next to a hovering medchair, her arm curled protectively around the chair's occupant, A'ali Cek. A startling white bandage covered the bacta gel coating her injury, but she offered Obi-Wan a bright smile nonetheless. He knew that she had overridden the Healers' wishes to come to the Hall this afternoon, and he felt honored.

He had thought so often of this day, when he had seen other Braiding Ceremonies, and watched here and there a fellow student become a Padawan. He thought of them now, those older apprentices, striding beside their Masters with easy confidence and extreme grace, their lightsabers swinging, their braids hanging nearly to their waists. He tried to summon up an image of himself like that, and failed utterly.

Qui-Gon waited, arms folded, watching the droid finish its work, and then glanced down at Master Yoda.

"You knew all along, that I was meant to teach this boy."

Yoda's ears raised alarmingly as he answered. "Nothing, I knew! Not my place to interfere with you, it is."

Qui-Gon looked back at Obi-Wan, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Of course, my Master."

At the very back edge of the crowd, behind a group of Healers, a lone figure stood, absolutely still, his face schooled into a rigidly pleasant smile. Bruck watched, as the droid hummed away from Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon stepped forward. He watched, expression never wavering, and a dark spirit moved restlessly beneath his skin. The web of stories he had spun had seemed to satisfy those who had asked, and he had not been summoned to appear before the Council. If they called him, he would only spin the web more skillfully. He had tasted the dark wine of manipulation and deceit, and he was learning well to mask its hold upon his soul.

A silence filled the Hall as Qui-Gon stood beside Obi-Wan and faced the gathering: Masters mantled with experience and peace, the few Knights who were not absent serving the Republic in the far reaches of the galaxy, students with eager, wistful lights in their eyes, Healers radiating the power of the Living Force. He placed a hand on Obi-Wan's shoulder, and said, "I've come to this place to take Obi-Wan Kenobi as my Padawan Learner. You who honor us with your presence here know that it is my duty as Master to teach, and Obi-Wan's to learn. The Braiding is the symbol of that commitment."

He turned to Obi-Wan, face solemn, but an encouraging glint lighting his eyes as one eyelid drooped in the subtlest of winks. Obi-Wan had to look away to keep from laughing.

Qui-Gon's hands moved deftly, despite their size, taking the uncut hair and swiftly plaiting its length, until a short braid hung behind Obi-Wan's ear, barely long enough to be seen, but there nevertheless. He secured it with a slim yellow cord that had once been wrapped tightly around his own Padawan braid, many years ago.

When it was finished, they faced the assembled Jedi as Master and Padawan, and Qui-Gon said, "We serve the Force."

From scores of throats came the answer, enveloping them with its bright power: "May the Force be with you."

And thus it was done.

* * *

At the next waning of the moon, General Molu stood before the Oracle of Triki.

He was dressed in a simple tunic of silvery gray, unencumbered with any weapons, and yet he seemed more imposing, not less, as he waited, still and unwavering.

A large crowd had squeezed into the Oracle's Temple, so much so that the requisite twenty paces of open space around the petitioner was in danger of being compromised. A huge contingent of Molu's soldiers stood bunched along one wall, their faces bleak. At the edge of the circle, eyes snapping with malice, stood Kai, the cultural officer, a large dagger thrust ostentatiously through his belt.

Orthu Bela stood beside the Oracle, eyes bereft of their usual jovial glow. He raised one hand, and the muttered chatter in the room died away, smothered under a blanket of tension.

He looked long into the General's face, and then turned to the Oracle, shoulders heavy.

"Oracle, will you hear us?" he asked.

"The Oracle is always willing to hear," the mellifluous voice responded.

"General Molu has violated the gods' taboo regarding the purity of the small moon's sky. He comes to ask that the gods judge his actions and pronounce exile or absolution."

A pause. There was no sound but the shifting of feet, and a sudden hastily smothered cough..

Then, the Oracle spoke.

"The gods have seen this action, and are grieved by the breaking of taboo. The waning moon is sacred, and its purity must remain inviolate."

A halo of thick tension seemed to circle every torch and spotlight in the Temple. The air pressed down with an ever-increasing weight as the Oracle contemplated the offense and the offender.

Then, it said, "However, the gods find no evil in General Molu. He has wielded an honorable sword."

As a cheer erupted from the soldiers' throats, the voice continued, "He may go in peace."

Molu permitted himself a smile.

And, much later that evening, he slipped out of the wholeheartedly joyous party that had erupted in the Main Court, and lifted his head to study the stars, a gilded cup held casually in one hand. He turned his face slightly, just enough to take in the sparkling region of space where Coruscant lay, far beyond the range of sight.

"I'd better send a comforting message to the Master Jedi," he thought. "He and young Obi-Wan are probably thinking I've taken a dagger to my own heart by now."

The moonlight caressed the sky. It was a good night for addressing the gods, and, as he thought of his Jedi friends, he dipped his fingers into his cup. Flinging a spray of winedrops upward, he spoke a blessing.

"May the gods walk with you, Master Jedi and Young Apprentice. May you serve the galaxy for many years in the power of your joint strength."

Then he drew his cloak more tightly about his shoulders, and turned to rejoin the celebration. On the pathway behind him, an offering of droplets shimmered in the light of the waning moon.

_FINIS_

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_**Thanks so much for reading! Leave a review? Even though I wrote this story QUITE some time ago, I'm still here and I'd love to hear from you!**_


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